Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

Hercule Poirot looked up at the front of the Quarry House.This is a fine example of mid Victorian architecture. He could picture a mahogany sideboard, with a big, heavy mahogany rectangular table in the center; a billiard room.Maybe there was a big kitchen with a washroom, stone flags carved into the floor, and a heavy coal stove that must have been converted to electric or gas by now. He noticed that the curtains upstairs were still closed.He rang the bell, and a thin, silver-haired old lady answered and told him that Colonel Weston and Mrs. Weston had gone to London and would not return until the following week.

He asked if he could go to Quarry Forest.The old lady replied that anyone can go in, there is no charge, and it takes about five minutes to arrive at the entrance along the road. There is a notice board on the big iron gate. He found the big iron gate easily, and inside it a path led down to woods and bushes. He stopped quickly and stood there thinking about it. What he thought of was not the scene in front of him or around him, but thinking about a sentence carefully, recalling one or two things over and over again.In his words, I have to think wildly.A forged will, a forged will and a girl.A missing girl was left with her fortune in a forged will.

A young artist came here and turned an abandoned quarry full of rocks into an underground garden.Poirot collected himself, looked around, and nodded with satisfaction.What kind of quarry garden, it's really ugly, it reminds people of the noise of smashing stones, and thinks of large trucks carrying many stones to build roads, out of industrial needs.An underground garden, on the other hand, had his recollections awakened, but vaguely, and it seemed that Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe had indeed been to Ireland to see gardens, and he remembered that he had been there five or six years before, and he Went there to investigate a case of theft of antique silverware, which was interesting in several respects and piqued his curiosity;

He couldn't remember which garden he was going to now.Seems to be not far from Cork.Is it Kirary?No, no, not far from Bantry Bay.He remembered it because that garden was so different from the most admirable gardens of the day, the gardens of French chateaux and the stately beauty of Versailles.I still remember that I was on the boat with several people.If it hadn't been for two strong and courageous boatmen who lifted him up and picked him up, he really couldn't get on the boat.He rowed towards a small island, which Poirot thought at the time was not very interesting.His feet were soaked, and it was surprisingly cold, and the wind poured in through the gaps in the raincoat.At that time, he was puzzled, what kind of beautiful scenery would there be on such a small island with sparse trees and stones everywhere, what kind of grand beauty with solemnity and symmetrical structure?A mistake - totally a big mistake, really shouldn't have come.

They docked at a small pier.The boatman skillfully took them ashore.A group of people walked and talked and laughed.Poirot straightened his raincoat, relaced his shoes, and followed them along the path, which was very monotonous between bushes and a few sparse trees.This garden is so boring, he thought. In an instant they were out of the undergrowth, and came to a slope with numerous steps leading to the bottom.Looking down, a miracle appeared in front of my eyes. It was a reproduction of the scenery often described in Irish poetry. It did not seem to be created by people's hard work. The scenery, such as flowers, bushes, artificial fountains, and winding paths, all seem to be enchanted, which is refreshing. What was it like here before? It’s too symmetrical, and it doesn’t look like it used to be a quarry. .This is a depression in the island. Looking up, you can see the sea and the mountains on the other side of the bay. The top of the mountain is shrouded in smoke and looks like a fairyland. He guessed that this garden must have inspired Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe, After the visit, she came up with the idea of ​​building one herself.So she bought this empty quarry enthusiastically, hoping to create a miracle in this traditional and simple rural area of ​​England.

After that, she paid a high salary to turn her vision into reality.She found Mitchell, Garfield, a young man of great skill, and brought him back.Nature gave him a lot of money and built him a house, Poirot thought to himself, Mitchell, Garfield has lived up to her painstaking efforts. As they walked, Poirot sat down on a bench to rest his feet.He imagined what it would be like in spring in the garden, with its many beeches and birches shining silver, with thorn bushes, white roses, and young junipers.And now it's autumn.Autumn here is not deserted either.The layers of forest are dyed and colorful, and one or two parrots emerge out of nowhere; walking along the path is really a winding path.Gorse was in full bloom (Spanish gorse, perhaps)—Poirot was not well versed in the names of flowers, but only roses and tulips.

The plants in the garden seem to be growing freely, without any artificial constraints, as if it is not a garden designed by humans at all.But Poirot knew in his heart that it was certainly not the case.Everything is carefully arranged, whether it is a small grass or a tall bush covered with golden yellow and red leaves, without exception, it has been carefully planned, and it can even be said to be arranged strictly according to the plan. He wondered whose wishes it had been built.Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe or Mitchell, Garfield?Poirot said to himself, the gap between the two is very, very great.Poirot had no doubt that Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe was a learned man, with many years of experience in gardening and a member of the Royal Botanical Society.She has seen many exhibitions, consulted plant catalogs, visited many gardens, and even traveled abroad to see plants.She doesn't know what she wants, and she will speak her mind, is that enough?Poirot felt that it was not enough.She may have given orders to the gardener and made sure they were carried out, but did she know, did she really know, did she really know in her head what would be done in practice to do what she wanted?What she could imagine was not the first year or the second, but two, three, or even six or seven years later, Poirot thought, Mitchell, Garfield knew what she wanted What to play, because she told him her wish, and he knew how to make beautiful flowers bloom in the bare quarry, just like making flowers bloom in the desert, he carefully planned, and it became a reality; in the process , like any artist who has received a huge fee, is full of incomparable joy in his heart, and his fairyland will be born on the side of an ordinary and monotonous hill.Some bushes cost a fortune to buy, some rare trees and flowers can only be obtained by gifts from friends, and some of the most common varieties that cost almost no money are also needed in the garden.You can tell by seeing the green leaves on the high ground that the spring must be full of primroses.

Poirot said to himself: "In England, people are keen to invite you to visit the nursery. Take you to see the roses, and talk endlessly about their garden, which is colorful and one of the best scenery in England. They choose one To see the lush beeches on a sunny day, with bell-shaped flowers blooming under the trees, is indeed beautiful, but they have shown me enough and often enough. I would rather- —"What would you rather do?Driving through the alleys in Devon, the road is winding, and the high embankments on both sides are full of beautiful primroses, pale yellow, white, clusters, clusters exuding fragrance, refreshing, that This fragrance is really the breath of spring.And there should not be any rare tree species planted here, both spring and autumn should be considered, so not only primroses but also crocuses should be planted, it is so beautiful.

He also wanted to know more about the current owner of the quarry house.He only heard their names, the retired old colonel and his wife lived there.Trust Spence to provide him with more information.Somehow he felt that whoever had it all now would be a kindred spirit with Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe, and Poirot got up and walked down the path.This road is easy to walk, and it is well-built.He thought, it was specially designed for the old lady, it is convenient for her to go anywhere, there are no steep steps, there is a chair not far away, it looks rustic, but in fact it is not, the back of the chair, and The place where you put your feet is very comfortable.Poirot really wanted to see this Mitchell, Garfield.He does a beautiful job, he knows the job inside out, he's a good designer; at the same time he found someone with experience to do his design, he made his patron's idea a reality, and made her feel everything The design is all her own credit, but Poirot does not think it is only her credit.It's almost his (Garfield's).Yes, I really want to meet him.He should still be living in the cottage (or rather, in the bungalow built for him), when Poirot's thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

He stared intently, he stared at a hollow beneath his feet, from which the path snaked out on the other side.What he was staring at was a clump of golden-yellow leafy shrubs whose branches and leaves intertwined to form a picture, which for a moment Poirot could not tell whether it was real or a special effect of light and shadow. Is this really an illusion?Poirot wondered to himself.Is someone doing magic?It's possible, very likely in a place like this, that I'm seeing a real person or—what could it be?His mind went back to an adventure he had called "Hercule's servitude" years ago, and somehow he felt that he was not in an English garden.There is a certain vibe.He tried to figure out what kind of atmosphere it was.As if enchanted, yes, there is a certain beauty, a shy beauty, but also a kind of wildness, if you think of this as a scene in the theater, you must think of dryads , Faun, can enjoy the beauty of Greece, but at the same time feel fear in his heart, yes, he thinks this underground garden is scary, what did Spence's sister say?There was a murder in the quarry many years ago?The blood splattered on the rocks, and then it was forgotten, and everything was covered up.Mitchell, Garfield came here, he designed and built an unparalleled underground garden.An elderly woman paid him a large sum of money.

Now he saw a young man standing on the other side of the hollow, hidden by the golden branches, and he found that young man had amazing beauty.People don't praise guys like that anymore, they just say they're sexy and attractive, which seems fair enough, with rough faces, tousled hair, and far from being straight, people don't think boys are pretty anymore. If I say it, it is only with guilt, as if I am too behind the times, and I am praising a quality that has long been deprecated. Sexy girls don’t like Opheus who plays the flute these days. It was the look of a husky pop star with tousled hair. Poirot walked along the path, and when he reached the other side of the steep slope, the young man emerged from the bushes to greet him.Youth seemed to be his most important characteristic, although Poirot could see that he was not really young.He was over thirty years old, and even approaching his forties, with a faint smile on his face, not as if expressing welcome, but as implying that they had known each other for a long time.He was tall and well-proportioned, with perfect features, like a classical statue; black eyes, and black hair, like a well-woven helmet or a hat, Poirot felt in a trance with himself and this young man for a moment. One was rehearsing for some grand show, and if that was the case, thought Poirot, looking at myself in galoshes, aha, I must ask the lady in charge of the costumes for a decent pair. "Did I trespass into the forbidden area? I'm sorry, but I'm still new to this area. I just arrived yesterday." "I don't think you're trespassing on a private sanctuary." The answer was soft, polite, yet strangely indifferent, as if he were wandering thousands of miles away, "The garden is not open, to be exact, but people often come Take a walk. Old Colonel and Mrs. Weston don't care. All they care about is if somebody breaks. And usually nobody does." "Nobody vandalized," said Poirot, looking around. "Nobody littered anything. And yet not a single little dustbin. It was very unusual, as if no one had ever been there. It was so strange. I couldn't help but wonder." People think," he went on, "that lovers often come for a walk in pairs." "Lovers don't come," replied the young man, "they think it's bad luck to come here." "Perhaps you are the architect of the garden? Perhaps I am mistaken." "My name is Mitchell, Garfield," said the young man. "I suppose you are," said Poirot, pointing his hand around. "You did it?" "Yes." Mitchell, Garfield replied. "Beautiful," said Poirot. "It would seem to anyone to have found something extraordinary in this part of England—oh, how should I put it—in this monotonous area." "Congratulations," he said. "You must be very pleased with what you have done here?" "Will people be satisfied? I don't know." "You built it for a Mrs. Llewellyn Smythe, I suppose? I hear she's dead. Colonel and Mrs. Weston lived here, didn't they? Did they buy it?" "Yes. They bought it cheap. The house is big and ugly - not easy to work with - not as good as people think. She left it to me in her will." "You sold it?" "I sold the house." "Didn't Quarry Gardens be sold?" "Oh, it's also sold. The garden is sold together. It can also be said to be a free gift." "Then why?" asked Poirot. "It's funny. I'm a little curious. You don't mind?" "Your question is unusual," Mitchell-Garfield said. "I don't know what's going on, but I like to ask why. Why did Zhang San do this? Why didn't Li Si do this? Why is Wang Wu different from Zhang San and Li Si?" "That's what you should say to scientists," Mitchell said, "about genes and chromosomes—that's how it's said these days. The type of arrangement they have, and so on." "You just said that you are not very satisfied, because no one is satisfied. Then your employer—is she satisfied? Such a beautiful scenery?" "Overall," Mitchell said, "I managed to please her, and she was easy to please." "There should be no problem," said Hercule Poirot. "I've heard she's in her sixties, at least sixty-five. People of that age are often satisfied?" "I reassure her that I am following her instructions, her thoughts and her intentions to the letter." "Is that true?" "Are you asking that question seriously?" "No," replied Poirot, "no, frankly, not." "To be successful in life," Mitchell-Garfield said, "to pursue a career one is passionate about, to satisfy one's artistic preferences, and to be a good businessman, one has to learn to sell products, otherwise you are doomed to follow the eyes of others, and other people's ideas are often incompatible with your own. I mainly do according to my own ideas, and then sell what I make, or to put it nicely, put it on the market , sold to the client who hired me, on the surface, it seems to be done exactly according to her plan and arrangement, which is similar to selling a child brown eggs instead of white eggs, the customer must be convinced that he is buying The best eggs, he made a wise choice, they were the best of the country, and if we asked the hen what was her preference? They were just brown, farm-raised, country eggs. If you said , they are just eggs. But there is only one difference between eggs, whether they are new or old." "You are a remarkable young man," said Poirot. "You are quite conceited," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe." "You have built this place beautifully. You have planned to turn this pile of rocks into a beauty. A stone quarry that is quarried for industrial purposes has no consideration for beauty. You add your own imagination, To explore with the eyes of one's own mind, and to have managed to secure the money to realize one's vision. Congratulations, salute, and please accept the salute of an old man who is retiring from his job." "And you're still going about your job?" "So you know me?" Poirot was delighted.He likes people to know who he is, and now he is a little worried that most people don't know who he is. "You came here following the blood...women and children have known about it for a long time. This place is small, and the news seems to have grown wings. Another famous person brought you here, right?" "Ah, you mean Ariadrey Oliver." "Ariadlee Oliver, best-selling author. People want to interview her, ask her thoughts on issues like the student movement, socialism, girls' clothing, sexuality, and many, many more Questions that have nothing to do with her." "Yes, yes," said Poirot. "It's sad, I think, that I find they don't really know Mrs. Oliver. They only know that she loves apples, and that she's been smiling for at least twenty years." Repeatedly, she has such a taste. But now, I'm afraid she won't like apples any more." "It was the apple that drew you here, didn't it?" "It was the apple at the Hallow's Eve party," said Poirot. "Have you been to the party?" "No." "Lucky." "Lucky?" Mitchell, Garfield repeated these two words, and there seemed to be a little surprise in his tone. "There was a murder at the party. It might not be a very pleasant experience for the guests. Maybe you haven't experienced it, but I can tell you that you are very lucky, because—" Poirot became more and more like a foreigner. People, "—ily, duuis, vous comprenez? (French, meaning: worrying things, do you understand?) People will ask you the time, the date and some impolite questions." He continued, "Do you know that kid?" "Well, I know. Everyone in the Reynolds family knows everyone in this area. I know most of the people around me. People in this village know each other, but the degree of understanding is different. Some are close, and some are friends. Some are just nodding acquaintances." "How is the boy Joyce?" "She--how should I say it?--didn't matter, she had a horrible, screaming voice. Really, that's all I remember about her. I don't like children very much, and most of them annoy me, Jo. Essie just annoys me, and when she opens her mouth, she talks about how she is." "She doesn't mean anything?" Mitchell, Garfield was a little surprised. "I don't find it interesting," he said. "Why does she have to be interesting?" "My point of view is that it is very unlikely that people who are not interesting will be murdered. People are generally murdered out of desire, worry or admiration. Everyone has their own choice, but generally there must be a premise." He stopped to look at his watch. "I must go. I have an appointment. Congratulations again." He walked very cautiously down the path.He secretly thanked himself for not wearing those pair of pinched patent leather shoes today. Mitchell, Garfield wasn't the only person he met in the underground garden that day, and when he got to the bottom of the garden, he noticed three paths running in slightly different directions.At the junction of the middle path there was a tree stump, on which sat a child waiting for him, and she explained her purpose at once. "I suppose you must be M. Herbuckle Poirot?" she asked. Her voice was clear and her tone was like a silver bell.She was so weak that she had something to do with an underground garden, almost like a little tree god, like an elf. "Yes, I am," replied Poirot. "I have come to fetch you," said the boy, "and you have come to have tea with us, have you not?" "With Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Oliver? Yes." "That's right, they're my mother and Aunt Ariadley," she scolded. "You're too late." "Sorry, I stopped on the way to talk to someone." "Well, I see, you're talking to Mitchell, aren't you?" "You know him?" "Of course. We've lived here a long time. I know everybody." Poirot did not know how old she was, so he asked her.She replied, "I'm twelve and I'm going to boarding school next year." "Are you happy?" "When I got there, I didn't think I liked the place quite as much as I used to," she added. "I think you'd better follow me, please." "Of course. Of course, I'm sorry I'm late." "Oh, it doesn't really matter." "what's your name?" "Miranda." "It suits you quite well," replied Poirot. "You're reminded of Shakespeare?" "Yes. Did you learn it in the text?" "Yes, Miss Emlyn read a part for us, and I asked my mother to read some, I like it very much, it sounds beautiful, a brave new world, real life is not so beautiful, is it?" "You don't believe it's true?" "Do you believe it?" "There is always a brave new world," said Poirot, "but, you know, only for quite special people, those lucky people who have such a world hidden deep in their hearts." "Oh, I see," replied Miranda, who seemed to understand it without any effort, and Poirot was puzzled as to what she understood. She turned away and said as she walked along the road. "We're going this way. It's not far. We can get out through the garden fence." She then turned her head to look back again, pointing and saying. "There used to be a fountain over there in the middle." "fountain?" "Yeah, it was years ago, I think it's still there, under the bushes and rhododendrons and all. It's all broken, you know, people take a little bit of it, and never see anyone take any Here comes the new one." "It's a pity." "I don't know. I don't know, do you like fountains very much?" "It depends," replied Poirot. "I've learned a little French," said Miranda, "meaning it depends, doesn't it?" "Exactly, you seem to be learning pretty well." "Everyone says that Miss Emlyn is a good teacher. She is our principal. She is extremely strict and a bit strong, but sometimes she teaches us something, and she beams with joy." "That shows that she is a really good teacher," said Hercule Poirot. "You know this place quite well—it seems that you know every lane. Do you come here often?" "Well, yes, my favorite thing is to come here for a walk, you know, when I come here, no one knows where I am. I climb up the tree - sit on the branch, and watch what's going on below. I like it, watching All kinds of movements." "What kind of movement?" "Mostly the birds and the squirrels. The birds fight a lot, don't they? It's not like in the poem 'The birds love each other,' but that's not the case, is it? I also watch the squirrels." "Then do you see people too?" "Sometimes, too. But few people come here." "why?" "I guess they were scared." "Why should you be afraid?" "Because someone was killed here a long time ago. I mean before the gardens were built here, it used to be a quarry, and there was a big pile of rocks or sand, and that's where she was found and buried, you think that old saying is Is it true—that some men are born to be hanged or drowned?" "No one is born to be hanged now. Hanging ain't no more in this country." "However, some countries still have hangings. They hang people on the street, and they read about it in newspapers." "Hey. Do you think it's a good thing or a bad thing?" Miranda's answer seemed to answer the question, but Poirot felt that she might be answering. "Joyce's drowned," she said. "Mum didn't want me to know, but I think she's stupid, don't you? I mean, I'm twelve." "Is Joyce your friend?" "Yes, a very good friend, so to speak. She tells me pretty funny things sometimes. It's all about elephants, and Lords, and things like that. She's been to India once. I wish I'd been to India. Jo." Ess and I tell each other our secrets all the time. I don't have as much to tell as Mom. Mom went to Greece, did you know that's where she met Aunt Ariadne, and she didn't take me there?" "Who told you about Joyce?" "Mrs. Palin, our cook, she was talking to Mrs. Mindon, who was cleaning, and someone put her head in a bucket of water." "Do you know who that person is?" "How would I know, neither of them seem to know, but they are both pretty stupid" "You know what, Miranda?" "I wasn't there, I had a sore throat and a fever that day, so Mum didn't take me to the party. But I think I can figure it out. Because she was drowned. How can I ask you if you think someone is destined to be drowned Damn, let's get through the fence here, watch your clothes." Poirot followed her closely, and it was not difficult for the little guide, slender as an elf, to cross the fence from the stone garden, but it was quite spacious.But she was worried about Poirot's trouble, warned him to beware of thorns, and helped him pull the edge of the fence where clothes could hang easily. They slid past a pile of compost in the garden, turned around a collapsed cucumber rack, I saw two trash cans.Outside is a neat little garden.Most of the plants were roses, and it didn't take much effort from here to the front of a small bungalow. Miranda led the way and walked in through an open French window.As an entomologist who has collected a rare cricket exclaims proudly: "I brought him." "Miranda, you didn't lead him through the fence, did you? You should have walked in through the side door." "Isn't this way better," replied Miranda, "it's quicker and closer." "I suspect it's much harder." "I forgot," said Mrs. Oliver, "that I introduced you to my friend Mrs. Butler?" "Of course, at the post office." The so-called acquaintance was actually when queuing up at the counter, and it only took a while. Now that we were so close, Poirot could take a good look at Mrs. Oliver's friend.The last thing I saw was a slender woman in a turban and a raincoat.Judith Butler was about thirty-five years old, and if her daughter was a dryad, an elf, Judith herself was a water sprite.Even like a Rhine goddess.She is fragile, with long blond hair on her shoulders, oval face, slightly protruding cheekbones, and a pair of big eyes under long eyelashes, the color of the sea. "It is a pleasure to thank you in person, M. Poirot," said Mrs. Butler. "It was very kind of you to come as soon as Ariadley asked you to." "If my friend Mrs. Oliver invites me, I'll do it," replied Poirot. "What nonsense?" Mrs. Oliver scolded. "She's sure, quite sure, that you'll get to the bottom of this cruel business. Miranda, dear, will you go into the kitchen? The scones are in the tray on the stove." Miranda disappeared in a blink of an eye, smiling at her mother as she left, as if to say, "She wants to distract me for a while." "I tried not to let her know," said Miranda's mother, "that it was such a horrible thing. But I think it was almost impossible to do so in the first place." "Indeed," replied Poirot, "nothing travels faster in a neighbourhood, than a disaster, especially a disgusting one. But," he went on, "no one can live in a In a vacuum, cut off from the world around you, and kids seem to be particularly good at understanding that kind of thing." "I don't remember whether it was Burns or Walter, but Sir Scott once said that there was a child in the note-taker," said Mrs. Oliver, "and she knew it perfectly when she spoke." "Joyce, Reynolds does seem to have witnessed a murder," said Mrs. Butler, "it's almost unbelievable." "You believe that Joyce actually saw it?" "I mean can't believe that Joyce didn't say it earlier after witnessing such a thing, it doesn't seem like Joyce's character." "Everyone who sees me here," said Poirot quietly, "seems to say that Joyce, the Reynolds boy, is lying." "I wonder if it's possible," said Judith Butler, "that some kid made up a story that turned out to be true?" "That is of course our starting point," replied Poirot. "Joyce, there is no doubt that Reynolds was murdered." "You've already started, and you may have found out," said Mrs. Oliver. "Ma'am, how can I have three heads and six arms? You are always so impatient." "Who says no?" said Mrs. Oliver. "Nobody can do anything these days if they're not in a hurry." Then Miranda brought out a plate of scones. "Is it okay here?" she asked. "I think you're done talking, haven't you? Is there anything else I can get from the kitchen?" There was a slight resentment in her tone.Mrs. Butler placed the silver George teapot on the fender, and turned on the electric kettle switch (which was turned off when the water was about to boil).She made tea and poured it out, and Miranda distributed hot scones and cucumber sandwiches with stately grace. "Ariadri and I met in Greece," said Judith. "Returning from an island," said Mrs. Oliver, "I fell into the sea. The ground was so dangerous that the sailors used to shout at you, 'Jump off'. Often, of course, they shouted jump when the boat was furthest away, It's just right when you jump, and you think it's impossible, so you hesitate, you freak out, you jump when it seems closest, and the boat is furthest away." She gasped , "Judith helped bring me up, and we've been inseparable ever since, haven't we?" "Well, yes," said Mrs. Butler. "Besides, I kind of like your name." She added, "Well, it suits the person." "Oh, it's probably a Greek name," replied Mrs. Oliver, "I picked it up myself, you know, not in any literary sense, but what happened to Ariadne never happened to me." In fact, I was never abandoned on a Greek island by a loved one." Poirot couldn't help laughing as he imagined what Mrs. Oliver would have looked like if she had been an outcast Greek maiden, and he raised a hand to his mustache to hide it from view. "We can't have exactly the same name," Mrs. Butler said. "Well, I can't imagine you beheading your lover, that happened between Judith and Holofernes, can you?" "She did it out of patriotism," said Mrs. Butler, "and, if I remember correctly, she was highly regarded and rewarded for it." "I don't know much about Judith and Holofernes. It's in the Apocrypha, isn't it? Quite a few people have given people—their children—quite a lot of weird names, if you look at it that way, Is it? Who is it that drives the nail into someone's head? Is it Jael or Sisera? I can never remember which is the man's name and which is the woman's name, I think it's Jael, it doesn't seem I remember a child named Jael." "She served him delicious food." Miranda was about to remove the tea tray when she stopped suddenly and said this. "Don't look at me," Judith Butler said to her friend. "I didn't introduce Miranda to the Apocrypha. She learned it in school." "It's very unusual in schools these days, isn't it?" said Mrs. Oliver. "They're teaching theology instead?" "Miss Emlyn didn't mean that." Miranda said, "She said that when we go to church now, what we hear are truths and stories in today's language, which has lost the essence of the original literature. Ben's beautiful prose and blank verse are a little bit familiar, and I especially love Jael and Sisera," she added. "I would never have thought," she mused, "to do something like this." One thing, I mean, take a hammer and hammer a nail into someone's head while they're asleep." "Don't do that," her mother replied. "And what will you do with your enemy, Miranda?" asked Poirot. “我会对他们友好。”米兰达一边思索一边轻轻地说，“做起来很困难，我却还是宁愿这样，因为我不愿意伤害任何人、任何东西。说不定我会用药让他们安乐死。他们渐渐人睡进入甜美的梦乡永不再醒来。”她收好茶杯和放面包黄油的盘子说，“妈妈，要是您带波洛先生去花园看看的话我来洗吧。花圃的后面还有一些伊丽莎白女王玫瑰。” 她端着茶盘小心翼翼地走出去。 “米兰达这孩子真叫人称奇。”奥列弗夫人说。 “夫人，您有个非常美丽的女儿。”波洛说。 “嗯，我觉得她目前还算好看。可谁知道以后会是什么样呢。有的孩子长大了变得又粗又胖，活像是只喂饱了的猪，不过现在一现在她像个小精灵。” “不用说她是特别喜欢去附近的石矿花园。” “有时我真希望她不要那么喜欢去就好啦。老去没人的地方闲逛怪吓人的，哪怕离村子再近也不行。如今一如今大家成天都提心吊胆。冲着这一点，波洛先生，您也得查清乔伊斯为什么会死得这么惨。因为一天不知道实情，我们就一刻也不得安宁——主要是对孩子们不放心。阿里阿德理，你带波洛先生去花园好吗？我一会儿就来。” 她拿着剩下的两个茶杯、一个盘子进了厨房。波洛跟着奥列弗夫人从落地长窗走出去。秋日里的这个小花园很普通，幸存着几枝秋麟麟草，花床上还开着几朵紫苑，伊丽莎白玫瑰骄傲地顶着粉色的花朵。奥列弗夫人疾步走到一处石凳前坐下，让波洛也坐了下来。 “你说你觉得米兰达像个小树精，”她问，“你觉得朱迪思像什么呢？” “我认为朱迪思应该叫乌迪拉才好。”波洛答道。 “一个水精？对。对，她看上去就像刚从莱茵河或者哪一片海水中出来似的，她的秀发似乎还水淋淋的，可又丝毫不蓬乱，是吗？” “她也非常可爱。”波洛回答说。 “你对她怎么看？” “我还没来得及细想呢。我只觉得她很漂亮很有魅力，似乎有什么事令她忧心忡忡。” “哦，那当然，哪能不忧郁呢。” “夫人，我希望你能给我讲讲有关她的事。” “嗯，我在旅途中跟她渐渐熟啦。你知道，还真有投缘的，这样的微乎其微。至于其余的人呢，旅行一结束就分道扬镳，不再打交道啦，但偶尔有例外的，我和朱迪思就是例外，我们还想保持联系。” “那次旅行之前你不认识她？” "do not know." “你对她有一定的了解吧？” “嘿，只是些很平常的事。她是个寡妇，”奥列弗夫人说，“丈夫死了好多年，他是个飞行员，在车祸中丧生的，大概是一天晚上在这附近什么地方从高速公路下到普通公路时好几辆车相擅。我觉得他好像没给她留下什么钱。她对他的死伤心透啦，不愿意提起他。” “她只有米兰达一个孩子吗？” “是的，朱迪思在附近找点零活干干，没有固定工作。” “她认识住在石矿宅的人吗？” “你说的是韦斯顿上校夫妇？” “我说的是前任主人，是卢埃林¯斯迈思夫人吧？” “好像是的，我听说这个名字，但是死了两三年啦，就没多少人提起她，那么多活人还不够吗？”奥列弗夫人愤愤地说。 “当然不够。”波洛答道，“我还得调查一下这一带死去的以及失踪的人。” “谁失踪了？” “一位姑娘。”波洛回答说。 “哦，是这样，”奥列弗夫人说，“这种人经常失踪吧？我是说，她们来这拿一份工钱，转身就去医院，因为怀孕啦，生个孩子叫奥古斯特、汉斯或者鲍里斯什么的。要么她们就嫁人啦，或者跟哪个相好的私奔。朋友们跟我讲的多啦，简直难以置信！这些女孩子，要么成为不堪重负的母亲们难得的好帮手，要么偷袜子——或者弄得让人谋害啦——”她停下来，“天啊！” 她叫道。 “安静点，夫人，”波洛说道。“似乎没有理由相信那个外国女孩被谋杀啦——恰恰相反。” “恰恰相反，什么意思？听不懂。” “很可能不是，不过——” 他取出笔记本记下一条。 “你写什么呢？” “过去发生的一些事情。” “过去过去，你就知道过去。” “昨日是今日之父。”波洛简洁地说。 他把笔记本递给她。 “你想看看我写的是什么吗？” “当然想。我敢打包票我不感兴趣。你觉得重要记下来的，我永远觉得无关紧要。” 他翻开小笔记本。 “死亡名单，卢埃林·斯迈思夫人(有钱人)。珍妮特，怀特(学校老师)。律师的助理员，被人用刀捅死，从前被控伪造证件。” 下面写着“唱悲剧的女孩失踪。” “什么唱悲剧的女孩？” “是我的朋友斯彭斯的妹妹用来称呼那个'互稗'女孩的词。” “她为什么失踪？” “因为她有可能惹了法律上的麻烦。” 波洛的手指指向下一条，只写着“伪造”二字，后面打了两个引号。 “伪造？”奥列弗夫人问，“为什么要伪造？” “我也想知道，为什么要伪造呢？” “伪造什么？” “伪造了一个遗嘱，或者说是遗嘱的附加条款，这一条对互稗女孩有利。” “施了不正当压力？”奥列弗夫人试探道。 “伪造比施不正当压力严重得多。”波洛回答说。 “我不明白这跟可怜的乔伊斯之死有什么联系。” “我也不知道，”波洛说，“不过，正因为如此。就很有意思” “下一个词是什么？我看不清。” “大象。” “这跟什么都联系不起来呀。” “也许有联系，相信我，”波洛回答说，“相信我吧，也许就有。” He stood up. “我得跟你分手啦。”他说，“我不辞而别，请代我向女主人道歉，我能见到她和她美丽而出色的女儿感到非常高兴。告诉她留神那孩子。” “妈妈天天告诫我，不要在树林里把迷藏捉。”奥列弗夫人引了句童谣，“好吧，再见。你非要弄得神秘兮兮的，那就继续保持神秘吧。你连说都不说一声要去干什么。” “我约好了明天上午同富勒顿、哈里森和利德贝特先生在曼彻斯特见面。” "What are you doing?" “讨论伪造证件以及相关事宜。” "and then?" “然后我想询问当时在场的人。” “出席晚会的？” “不一准备晚会的。”