伯特伦旅馆之谜25
时间：2026-01-04 08:00:00
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Eighteen
Canon Pennyfather looked at Chief-Inspector Davy and Inspector Camp-
bell, and Chief- Inspector Davy and Inspector Campbell looked at him.
Canon Pennyfather was at home again. Sitting in the big armchair in his
library, a pillow behind his head and his feet up on a pouffe, with a rug
over his knees to emphasize his invalid status.
“I’m afraid,” he was saying politely, “that I simply cannot remember
anything at all.”
“You can’t remember the accident when the car hit you?”
“I’m really afraid not.”
“Then how did you know a car did hit you?” demanded Inspector Camp-
bell acutely.
“The woman there, Mrs — Mrs — was her name Wheeling? — told me
about it.”
“And how did she know?”
Canon Pennyfather looked puzzled.
“Dear me, you are quite right. She couldn’t have known, could she? I
suppose she thought it was what must have happened.”
“And you really cannot remember anything? How did you come to be in
Milton St. John?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Canon Pennyfather. “Even the name is quite unfamil-
iar to me.”
Inspector Campbell’s exasperation was mounting, but Chief- Inspector
Davy said in his soothing, homely voice:
“Just tell us again the last thing you do remember, sir.”
Canon Pennyfather turned to him with relief. The inspector’s dry scepti-
cism had made him uncomfortable.
“I was going to Lucerne to a congress. I took a taxi to the airport—at
least to Kensington Air Station.”
“Yes. And then?”
“That’s all. I can’t remember anymore. The next thing I remember is the
wardrobe.”
“What wardrobe?” demanded Inspector Campbell.
“It was in the wrong place.”
Inspector Campbell was tempted to go into this question of a wardrobe
in the wrong place. Chief-Inspector Davy cut in.
“Do you remember arriving at the air station, sir?”
“I suppose so,” said Canon Pennyfather, with the air of one who has a
great deal of doubt on the matter.
“And you duly flew to Lucerne.”
“Did I? I don’t remember anything about it if so.”
“Do you remember arriving back at Bertram’s Hotel that night?”
“No.”
“You do remember Bertram’s Hotel?”
“Of course. I was staying there. Very comfortable. I kept my room on.”
“Do you remember travelling in a train?”
“A train? No, I can’t recall a train.”
“There was a holdup. The train was robbed. Surely, Canon Pennyfather,
you can remember that.”
“I ought to, oughtn’t I?” said Canon Pennyfather. “But somehow—” he
spoke apologetically—“I don’t.” He looked from one to the other of the of-
ficers with a bland gentle smile.
“Then your story is that you remember nothing after going in a taxi to
the air station until you woke up in the Wheelings’ cottage at Milton St.
John.”
“There is nothing unusual in that,” the Canon assured him. “It happens
quite often in cases of concussion.”
“What did you think had happened to you when you woke up?”
“I had such a headache I really couldn’t think. Then of course I began to
wonder where I was and Mrs. Wheeling explained and brought me some
excellent soup. She called me ‘love’ and ‘dearie’ and ‘ducks,’” said the
Canon with slight distaste, “but she was very kind. Very kind indeed.”
“She ought to have reported the accident to the police. Then you would
have been taken to hospital and properly looked after,” said Campbell.
“She looked after me very well,” the Canon protested, with spirit, “and I
understand that with concussion there is very little you can do except
keep the patient quiet.”
“If you should remember anything more, Canon Pennyfather—”
The Canon interrupted him.
“Four whole days I seem to have lost out of my life,” he said. “Very curi-
ous. Really very curious indeed. I wonder so much where I was and what I
was doing. The doctor tells me it may all come back to me. On the other
hand it may not. Possibly I shall never know what happened to me during
those days.” His eyelids flickered. “You’ll excuse me. I think I am rather
tired.”
“That’s quite enough now,” said Mrs. McCrae, who had been hovering
by the door, ready to intervene if she thought it necessary. She advanced
upon them. “Doctor says he wasn’t to be worried,” she said firmly.
The policemen rose and moved towards the door. Mrs. McCrae shepher-
ded them out into the hall rather in the manner of a conscientious sheep-
dog. The Canon murmured something and Chief-Inspector Davy, who was
the last to pass through the door, wheeled round at once.
“What was that?” he asked, but the Canon’s eyes were now closed.
“What did you think he said?” said Campbell as they left the house after
refusing Mrs. McCrae’s lukewarm offer of refreshment.
Father said thoughtfully:
“I thought he said ‘the Walls of Jericho.’”
“What could he mean by that?”
“It sounds biblical,” said Father.
“Do you think we’ll ever know,” asked Campbell, “how that old boy got
from the Cromwell Road to Milton St. John?”
“It doesn’t seem as if we shall get much help from him,” agreed Davy.
“That woman who says she saw him on the train after the holdup. Can
she possibly be right? Can he be mixed-up in some way with these robber-
ies? It seems impossible. He’s such a thoroughly respectable old boy. Can’t
very well suspect a Canon of Chadminster Cathedral of being mixed-up
with a train robbery, can one?”
“No,” said Father thoughtfully, “no. No more than one can imagine Mr.
Justice Ludgrove being mixed-up with a bank holdup.”
Inspector Campbell looked at his superior officer curiously.
The expedition to Chadminster concluded with a short and unprofitable
interview with Dr. Stokes.
Dr. Stokes was aggressive, uncooperative and rude.
“I’ve known the Wheelings quite a while. They’re by way of being neigh-
bours of mine. They’d picked some old chap off the road. Didn’t know
whether he was dead drunk, or ill. Asked me in to have a look. I told them
he wasn’t drunk—that it was concussion—”
“And you treated him after that.”
“Not at all. I didn’t treat him, or prescribe for him or attend him. I’m not
a doctor—I was once, but I’m not now—I told them what they ought to do
was ring up the police. Whether they did or not I don’t know. Not my busi-
ness. They’re a bit dumb, both of them—but kindly folk.”
“You didn’t think of ringing up the police yourself?”
“No, I did not. I’m not a doctor. Nothing to do with me. As a human be-
ing I told them not to pour whisky down his throat and keep him quiet
and flat until the police came.”
He glared at them and, reluctantly, they had to leave it at that.
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