伯特伦旅馆之谜18
时间：2026-01-04 07:42:28
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole
for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover
sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan un-
til the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if
necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone
call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be else-
where on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover
sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canon’s return. The
Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen
table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readi-
ness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed
anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.
The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from
London.
At 7 o’clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he
still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected
that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o’clock came and
no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she
would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of pos-
sibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have writ-
ten to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post
the letter.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. McCrae.
At 9 o’clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter.
The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the
good man’s got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that
he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake
in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall
sit up until 11 o’clock but no longer,” said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her
bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven
there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly
lock up the house and betake herself to bed.
It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened
before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The
possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the
wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land’s End
or John o’ Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mis-
take in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until
tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign confer-
ence he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the
weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten
to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after
tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That
was the sort of thing the Canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a
telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be
home on the day after, or there would be a letter.
The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from
him. For the first time Mrs. McCrae began to be uneasy. Between 9 a.m.
and 1 p.m. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs. McCrae had
her own fixed views about the telephone. She used it and recognized its
convenience but she was not fond of the telephone. Some of her house-
hold shopping was done by telephone, though she much preferred to do it
in person owing to a fixed belief that if you did not see what you were be-
ing given, a shopkeeper was sure to try and cheat you. Still, telephones
were useful for domestic matters. She occasionally, though rarely, tele-
phoned her friends or relations in the near neighbourhood. To make a call
of any distance, or a London call, upset her severely. It was a shameful
waste of money. Nevertheless, she began to meditate facing that problem.
Finally, when yet another day dawned without any news of him, she de-
cided to act. She knew where the Canon was staying in London. Bertram’s
Hotel. A nice old-fashioned place. It might be as well, perhaps, if she rang
up and made certain inquiries. They would probably know where the
Canon was. It was not an ordinary hotel. She would asked to be put
through to Miss Gorringe. Miss Gorringe was always efficient and thought-
ful. The Canon might, of course, return by the twelve thirty. If so he would
be here any minute now.
But the minutes passed and there was no Canon. Mrs. McCrae took a
deep breath, nerved herself and asked for a call to London. She waited,
biting her lips and holding the receiver clamped firmly to her ear.
“Bertram’s Hotel, at your service,” said a voice.
“I would like, if you please, to speak to Miss Gorringe,” said Mrs. Mc-
Crae.
“Just a moment. What name shall I say?”
“It’s Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper. Mrs. McCrae.”
“Just a moment please.”
Presently the calm and efficient voice of Miss Gorringe came through.
“Miss Gorringe here. Did you say Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper?”
“That’s right. Mrs. McCrae.”
“Oh yes. Of course. What can I do for you, Mrs. McCrae?”
“Is Canon Pennyfather staying at the hotel still?”
“I’m glad you’ve rung up,” said Miss Gorringe. “We have been rather
worried as to what exactly to do.”
“Do you mean something’s happened to Canon Pennyfather? Has he had
an accident?”
“No, no, nothing of that kind. But we expected him back from Lucerne
on Friday or Saturday.”
“Eh—that’d be right.”
“But he didn’t arrive. Well, of course that wasn’t really surprising. He
had booked his room on—booked it, that is, until yesterday. He didn’t
come back yesterday or send any word and his things are still here. The
major part of his baggage. We hadn’t been quite sure what to do about it.
Of course,” Miss Gorringe went on hastily, “we know the Canon is, well—
somewhat forgetful sometimes.”
“You may well say that!”
“It makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room
is actually booked for another guest.” She added: “You have no idea where
he is?”
With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said:
“The man might be anywhere!” She pulled herself together. “Well, thank
you, Miss Gorringe.”
“Anything I can do—” Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully.
“I dare say I’ll hear soon enough,” said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss
Gorringe again and rang off.
She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canon’s
personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been
notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one
could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself “one
of the scatty ones,” and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after
by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still
survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Penny-
father as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt inno-
cently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was
abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving
this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to re-
ceive him. She couldn’t put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didn’t
know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most diffi-
culties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdea-
con Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his
hands.
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He
knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheer-
fully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident
cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae’s
explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too,
was not alarmed.
“Now don’t you worry, Mrs. McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he
sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We’ll hunt the ab-
sentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K.
Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he’d gone on a
lecture tour ‘Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?’”
He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very
funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather
might have done.
“Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excel-
lent veal cutlets! You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old
friend appreciates you.”
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with
a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the
Archdeacon’s favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to
the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the tele-
phone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made
Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving,
because definitely her master had got to be tracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the Canon’s sister who took little notice of
her brother’s goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea
where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield.
He addressed himself once more to Bertram’s Hotel and got details as pre-
cisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening
of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage
had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had
mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He
had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire,
who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as
told by the Canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that any-
one at Bertram’s Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail
—he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was
not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes” consideration before
the next call. He could ring up the air station in London. That would no
doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr. Weiss-
garten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at
the conference.
Dr. Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking
to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of dis-
paraging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in
Lucerne.
“Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov,” he said, “most unsound. How he
gets away with it I don’t know! Fellow isn’t a scholar at all. Do you know
what he actually said?”
The Archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there
was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening
to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some re-
luctance Dr. Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.
“Pennyfather?” he said. “Pennyfather? He ought to have been there.
Can’t think why he wasn’t there. Said he was going. Told me so only a
week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.”
“You mean he wasn’t at the conference at all?”
“That’s what I’ve just said. He ought to have been there.”
“Do you know why he wasn’t there? Did he send an excuse?”
“How should I know? He certainly talked about being there. Yes, now I
remember. He was expected. Several people remarked on his absence.
Thought he might have had a chill or something. Very treacherous
weather.” He was about to revert to his criticisms of his fellow scholars
but Archdeacon Simmons rang off.
He had got a fact but it was a fact that for the first time awoke in him an
uneasy feeling. Canon Pennyfather had not been at the Lucerne Confer-
ence. He had meant to go to that conference. It seemed very extraordinary
to the Archdeacon that he had not been there. He might, of course, have
taken the wrong plane, though on the whole BEA were pretty careful of
you and shepherded you away from such possibilities. Could Canon
Pennyfather have forgotten the actual day that he was going to the confer-
ence? It was always possible, he supposed. But if so where had he gone in-
stead?
He addressed himself now to the air terminal. It involved a great deal of
patient waiting and being transferred from department to department. In
the end he got a definite fact. Canon Pennyfather had booked as a passen-
ger on the 21:40 plane to Lucerne on the 18th but he had not been on the
plane.
“We’re getting on,” said Archdeacon Simmons to Mrs. McCrae, who was
hovering in the background. “Now, let me see. Who shall I try next?”
“All this telephoning will cost a fearful lot of money,” said Mrs. McCrae.
“I’m afraid so. I’m afraid so,” said Archdeacon Simmons. “But we’ve got
to get on his track, you know. He’s not a very young man.”
“Oh, sir, you don’t think there’s anything could really have happened to
him?”
“Well, I hope not…I don’t think so, because I think you’d have heard if
so. He—er—always had his name and address on him, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes, sir, he had cards on him. He’d have letters too, and all sorts of
things in his wallet.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s in a hospital then,” said the Archdeacon. “Let
me see. When he left the hotel he took a taxi to the Athenaeum. I’ll ring
them up next.”
Here he got some definite information. Canon Pennyfather, who was
well known there, had dined there at seven thirty on the evening of the
19th. It was then that the Archdeacon was struck by something he had
overlooked until then. The aeroplane ticket had been for the 18th but the
Canon had left Bertram’s Hotel by taxi to the Athenaeum, having men-
tioned he was going to the Lucerne Conference, on the 19th. Light began to
break. “Silly old ass,” thought Archdeacon Simmons to himself, but careful
not to say it aloud in front of Mrs. McCrae. “Got his dates wrong. The con-
ference was on the 19th. I’m sure of it. He must have thought that he was
leaving on the 18th. He was one day wrong.”
He went over the next bit carefully. The Canon would have gone to the
Athenaeum, he would have dined, he would have gone on to Kensington
Air Station. There, no doubt, it would have been pointed out to him that
his ticket was for the day before and he would then have realized that the
conference he was going to attend was now over.
“That’s what happened,” said Archdeacon Simmons, “depend upon it.”
He explained it to Mrs. McCrae, who agreed that it was likely enough.
“Then what would he do?”
“Go back to his hotel,” said Mrs. McCrae.
“He wouldn’t have come straight down here—gone straight to the sta-
tion, I mean.”
“Not if his luggage was at the hotel. At any rate, he would have called
there for his luggage.”
“True enough,” said Simmons. “All right. We’ll think of it like this. He
left the airport with his little bag and he went back to the hotel, or started
for the hotel at all events. He might have had dinner perhaps—no, he’d
dined at the Athenaeum. All right, he went back to the hotel. But he never
arrived there.” He paused a moment or two and then said doubtfully, “Or
did he? Nobody seems to have seen him there. So what happened to him
on the way?”
“He could have met someone,” said Mrs. McCrae, doubtfully.
“Yes. Of course that’s perfectly possible. Some old friend he hadn’t seen
for a long time…He could have gone off with a friend to the friend’s hotel
or the friend’s house, but he wouldn’t have stayed there three days, would
he? He couldn’t have forgotten for three whole days that his luggage was
at the hotel. He’d have rung up about it, he’d have called for it, or in a su-
preme fit of absentmindedness he might have come straight home. Three
days’ silence. That’s what’s so inexplicable.”
“If he had an accident—”
“Yes, Mrs. McCrae, of course that’s possible. We can try the hospitals.
You say he had plenty of papers on him to identify him? Hm—I think
there’s only one thing for it.”
Mrs. McCrae looked at him apprehensively.
“I think, you know,” said the Archdeacon gently, “that we’ve got to go to
the police.”
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