伯特伦旅馆之谜19
时间：2026-01-04 07:42:29
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Twelve
Miss Marple had found no difficulty in enjoying her stay in London. She
did a lot of the things that she had not had the time to do in her hitherto
brief visits to the capital. It has to be regretfully noted that she did not
avail herself of the wide cultural activities that would have been possible
to her. She visited no picture galleries and no museums. The idea of pat-
ronizing a dress show of any kind would not even have occurred to her.
What she did visit were the glass and china departments of the large
stores, and the household linen departments, and she also availed herself
of some marked down lines in furnishing fabrics. Having spent what she
considered a reasonable sum upon these household investments, she in-
dulged in various excursions of her own. She went to places and shops she
remembered from her young days, sometimes merely with the curiosity of
seeing whether they were still there. It was not a pursuit that she had ever
had time for before, and she enjoyed it very much. After a nice little nap
after lunch, she would go out, and, avoiding the attentions of the commis-
sionaire if possible, because he was so firmly imbued with the idea that a
lady of her age and frailty should always go in a taxi, she walked towards
a bus stop, or tube station. She had bought a small guide to buses and their
routes—and an Underground Transport Map; and she would plan her ex-
cursion carefully. One afternoon she could be seen walking happily and
nostalgically round Evelyn Gardens or Onslow Square murmuring softly,
“Yes, that was Mrs. Van Dylan’s house. Of course it looks quite different
now. They seem to have remodelled it. Dear me, I see it’s got four bells.
Four flats, I suppose. Such a nice old-fashioned square this always was.”
Rather shamefacedly she paid a visit to Madame Tussaud’s, a well-re-
membered delight of her childhood. In Westbourne Grove she looked in
vain for Bradley’s. Aunt Helen had always gone to Bradley’s about her
sealskin jacket.
Window shopping in the general sense did not interest Miss Marple, but
she had a splendid time rounding up knitting patterns, new varieties of
knitting wool, and suchlike delights. She made a special expedition to
Richmond to see the house that had been occupied by Great- Uncle
Thomas, the retired admiral. The handsome terrace was still there but
here again each house seemed to be turned into flats. Much more painful
was the house in Lowndes Square where a distant cousin, Lady Merridew,
had lived in some style. Here a vast skyscraper building of modernistic
design appeared to have arisen. Miss Marple shook her head sadly and
said firmly to herself, “There must be progress I suppose. If Cousin Ethel
knew, she’d turn in her grave, I’m sure.”
It was on one particularly mild and pleasant afternoon that Miss Marple
embarked on a bus that took her over Battersea Bridge. She was going to
combine the double pleasure of taking a sentimental look at Princes Ter-
race Mansions where an old governess of hers had once lived, and visiting
Battersea Park. The first part of her quest was abortive. Miss Ledbury’s
former home had vanished without trace and had been replaced by a
great deal of gleaming concrete. Miss Marple turned into Battersea Park.
She had always been a good walker but had to admit that nowadays her
walking powers were not what they were. Half a mile was quite enough to
tire her. She could manage, she thought, to cross the Park and go out over
Chelsea Bridge and find herself once more on a convenient bus route, but
her steps grew gradually slower and slower, and she was pleased to come
upon a tea enclosure situated on the edge of the lake.
Teas were still being served there in spite of the autumn chill. There
were not many people today, a certain amount of mothers and prams, and
a few pairs of young lovers. Miss Marple collected a tray with tea and two
sponge cakes. She carried her tray carefully to a table and sat down. The
tea was just what she needed. Hot, strong and very reviving. Revived, she
looked round her, and, her eyes stopping suddenly at a particular table,
she sat up very straight in her chair. Really, a very strange coincidence,
very strange indeed! First the Army & Navy Stores and now here. Very un-
usual places those particular two people chose! But no! She was wrong.
Miss Marple took a second and stronger pair of glasses from her bag. Yes,
she had been mistaken. There was a certain similarity, of course. That
long straight blonde hair; but this was not Bess Sedgwick. It was someone
years younger. Of course! It was the daughter! The young girl who had
come into Bertram’s with Lady Selina Hazy’s friend, Colonel Luscombe.
But the man was the same man who had been lunching with Lady Sedg-
wick in the Army & Navy Stores. No doubt about it, the same handsome,
hawklike look, the same leanness, the same predatory toughness and—
yes, the same strong, virile attraction.
“Bad!” said Miss Marple. “Bad all through! Cruel! Unscrupulous. I don’t
like seeing this. First the mother, now the daughter. What does it mean?”
It meant no good. Miss Marple was sure of that. Miss Marple seldom
gave anyone the benefit of the doubt; she invariably thought the worst,
and nine times out of ten, so she insisted, she was right in so doing. Both
these meetings, she was sure, were more or less secret meetings. She ob-
served now the way these two bent forward over the table until their
heads nearly touched; and the earnestness with which they talked. The
girl’s face—Miss Marple took off her spectacles, rubbed the lenses care-
fully, then put them on again. Yes, this girl was in love. Desperately in
love, as only the young can be in love. But what were her guardians about
to let her run about London and have these clandestine assignments in
Battersea Park? A nicely brought up, well-behaved girl like that. Too nicely
brought up, no doubt! Her people probably believed her to be in some
quite other spot. She had to tell lies.
On the way out Miss Marple passed the table where they were sitting,
slowing down as much as she could without its being too obvious. Unfor-
tunately, their voices were so low that she could not hear what they said.
The man was speaking, the girl was listening, half pleased, half afraid.
“Planning to run away together, perhaps?” thought Miss Marple. “She’s
still under age.”
Miss Marple passed through the small gate in the fence that led to the
sidewalk of the park. There were cars parked along there and presently
she stopped beside one particular car. Miss Marple was not particularly
knowledgeable over cars but such cars as this one did not come her way
very often, so she had noted and remembered it. She had acquired a little
information about cars of this style from an enthusiastic great-nephew. It
was a racing car. Some foreign make—she couldn’t remember the name
now. Not only that, she had seen this car, or one exactly like it, seen it only
yesterday in a side street close to Bertram’s Hotel. She had noticed it not
only because of its size and its powerful and unusual appearance but be-
cause the number had awakened some vague memory, some trace of asso-
ciation in her memory. FAN 2266. It had made her think of her cousin
Fanny Godfrey. Poor Fanny who stuttered, who had said “I have got t-t-t-
wo s-s-s-potz….”
She walked along and looked at the number of this car. Yes, she was
quite right. FAN 2266. It was the same car. Miss Marple, her footsteps
growing more painful every moment, arrived deep in thought at the other
side of Chelsea Bridge and by then was so exhausted that she hailed the
first taxi she saw with decision. She was worried by the feeling that there
was something she ought to do about things. But what things and what to
do about them? It was all so indefinite. She fixed her eyes absently on
some newsboards.
“Sensational developments in train robbery,” they ran. “Engine driver’s
story,” said another one. Really! Miss Marple thought to herself, every day
there seemed to be a bank holdup or a train robbery or a wage pay snatch.
Crime seemed to have got above itself.
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