Chapter 12 Chapter 12 Confused

1Edmund Swettenham sat unsteadily on the lawnmower. "Good morning, Philippa," he said. "Hello." "are you busy?" "generally." "what are you doing?" "You don't know how to read it yourself?" "No, I'm not a gardener. You seem to be playing with dirt somehow." "I'm transplanting winter lettuce." "Transplant? What a strange word! Like poke. Do you know what poke means? I just learned that day. I always thought it was a term used in professional dueling." "What do you want?" Philippa asked coldly.

"Yes, I want to see you." Philippa shot him a quick glance. "I hope you don't come here like this. Mrs. Lucas doesn't like it." "Did she not allow you to accept flowers?" "Don't be ridiculous." "Flowers. That's a pretty word, and it describes my attitude so well. Keep it at arm's length—but pursue it unswervingly. " "Please go, Edmund. You have no right to be here." "You're wrong," said Edmund triumphantly. "I have a right to be here. Mrs. Lucas called my mother this morning and said she had a lot of vegetable gourds."

"There are several blockbusters." "Also asked if we would trade a pot of honey for a vegetable gourd." "The exchange is not fair at all: you can't sell vegetable gourds at this time of year—everyone has a plot like this." "Naturally, that's why Mrs. Lucas called. The last time, if I remember correctly, it was suggested that we exchange skim milk—skim milk, mind you—for the lettuce. Early, I bought one tree for 1 shilling." Philippa said nothing. Edmund drew a jug of honey from his pocket. "Well, here," he said, "is my alibi. In a broad sense, it's pretty flimsy.

If Mrs. Lucas loses his temper, just say I'm here looking for vegetable gourds, never say I'm flirting with you. " "I see." "Have you ever read Tennyson?" asked Edmund casually. "Not often." "Should read it. Tennyson's fame will come back soon. If you turn on the radio at night, you'll hear The King's Songbook instead of endless Trollope. I never thought Trollope Pu's affectation is the most intolerable. You can have a little Trollope, but you can't stay in his works all the time. But as for Tennyson, have you read his "Mode" ?”

"I read it once, a long time ago." "There's something to this poem," he whispered, "'Imperfect perfection, icy symmetry, brilliant futility.' That's you, Philippa." "It's not a compliment!" "No, not on purpose. I suppose Maude got under the poor fellow's skin, just as you got under mine." "Don't be ridiculous, Edmund." "Oh, hell, Philippa, why are you the way you are? What's behind that glorious shape of yours? What do you think? What do you feel? Happiness, misery, horror, or what? ? There must be something."

Philippa said quietly, "How I feel is my business." "It's my business too. I want you to talk. I want to know what's going on in your quiet heart. I have a right to know, and I do. I didn't want to love you, I wanted to sit quietly Down to write my book. Such a wonderful book, and it's all about how miserable the world is. It's so easy to see how miserable other people are. It's all a habit, really. Yes, I suddenly believed that, reading after Burne Jones' biography." Philippa stopped speaking, frowned, and stared at him in bewilderment, "What does Beth Jones have to do with this?"

"It's all about it. If you read the Pre-Raphaelites, you know what fashion is. They're all so sweet, slang-talking, jovial, talking and laughing, and everything is beautiful and wonderful. This, too, is the fashion. Actually, they are not very happy at all, or no happier than we are, and we are no less miserable than they. Tell you, this is fashion.After the war, we looked for sex.It's all getting disheartened now.These simply don't matter.Why are we talking about this?I originally came to talk about our affairs, but I was splashed with cold water and stepped back in fright.Just because you don't want to help me. "

"What do you want me to do?" "Speak! Talk about the circumstances. Is that because of your husband? You sewed his mouth shut when he died because you loved him?" Is that right?Well, even if you loved him in the past, he died.Other girls had lost their husbands—quite a few—and some loved their husbands.They also told people in bars that when they were drunk, they would cry for a while, and then sleep with others when they felt better. I guess it's a way to forget about the past.You have to forget the past, Philippa.You're young--and terribly sweet--and I love you to death.Tell me about your damn husband, tell me about him. "

"There's nothing to talk about. We meet and we get married." "You must have been very young then." "too young." "And are you happy with him? Go on, Philippa." "Nothing to go on. We got married, and I think we were as happy as most people. Harry was born, Ronald went abroad, and he—he was killed in Italy." "Just because there's Harry?" "Just because there's Harry." "I like Harry, he's such a nice boy. He likes me too. We hit it off. How about it, Philippa? Shall we get married? You can keep on being the gardener and I'll work on the book, and we'll leave work and enjoy ourselves during the holidays. With a little tact, we can manage not to live with Mom. She can shell out some money to support her dedicated son.

I absorb, I write those nasty books.My eyesight is defective and my mouth can't stop talking, that's my worst flaw.Would you like to try it? " Philippa looked at him.In front of her was a tall young man with large spectacles and a dignified and anxious expression.His sandy hair was disheveled, and he gazed at her with reassuring friendship. "No," said Philippa. "Sure—no?" "Definitely not." "why?" "You know nothing about me." "that's it?" "No, you don't understand anything." Edmund thought for a moment.

"Perhaps so," he admitted, "but who knows? Philippa, my dear—" He stopped. In an instant, there was a mournful and long narration. "Evening is coming, (sings Edmund, but it's only eleven o'clock in the morning) The little poodles in the mansion garden, Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil, they bark and sing .” "Your name doesn't rhyme well, does it? Sounds like Ode to the Fountain Pen. Do you have another name? " "Joan. Come on, please. That's Mrs. Lucas." "Joan, Joan, Joan, Joan, it's better, but it's not good. Greasy Joan knocked over the pot—not a good picture of married life either." "Mrs. Lucas is—" "Oh, hell:" said Edmund, "give me the damned vegetable gourd." 2 Sergeant Fletcher is in charge of the security of the small paddock house. This day should ask for a rest.She always took the eleven o'clock bus to Mendenham.After an arrangement with Miss Blacklock, Sergeant Fletcher became housekeeper. She went to the village with Dora Bonner. Fletcher sprang into action.Someone oiled the door and put it in standby.Whoever did it, it was to wait until the lights went out, so ignorant, Philippa's nickname. ——Annotation left the living room unconsciously.That rules out Mickey, since she doesn't have to use that door. Who is left?Neighbors, Fletcher thought, could also be ruled out.He couldn't see how they could find an opportunity to oil the door and get it ready.That leaves Patrick and Juliet Simmons, Philippa Haymes, and possibly Dora Bonner.The young Simmons siblings in Milchester.Philippa Hymes was at work again.Sergeant Fletcher can search for any secret at will.But disappointingly, there was nothing suspicious about the house.Although Fletcher was an expert on electricity, I saw no sign of a blown light fuse in either the wiring or the distribution box.Having checked all the bedrooms, he finds that everything is in order, which is really annoying.Philippa Hymes's room had photographs all of the same boy with serious eyes, and another from earlier; Theater program list.Julia had a drawer full of snapshots of the South of France in her room.A few photos of a bath, another of a villa nestled among mimosa bushes.Patrick's room has some memorabilia of his service in the Navy.There were not many personal items in Dora Bonner's house, and none of them seemed suspicious. Yet, Fletcher thought, someone in the house must have oiled that door. At this time, a sound came from downstairs, interrupting his thoughts.He hurried to the top of the building and looked down. Mrs. Swettenham was walking across the hall with a basket on her arm.She looked into the drawing room, then went across the hall into the dining room.When she came out, she had no basket in hand. Fletcher made a faint sound, the unexpected creak of his feet on the wooden floor, which made her turn her head.She called up: "Is that you, Miss Blacklock?" "No, Mrs. Swettenham, it's me." Fletcher responded. Mrs. Swettenham gave a little scream. "Wow! You really startled me. I thought it was another thief." Fletcher came down the stairs. "The house doesn't seem to be very well secured against burglars," he said. "Can anybody come in and out like you?" "I've just bought some fruit," explained Mrs. Swettenham. "Miss Blacklock wants to make some fruit jelly, but she doesn't have any trees here. I've left some for her in the dining room." After she finished speaking, she smiled. "Oh, I see. You're asking me how I got in? Yes, I came in by the side door. We go in and out of each other's houses, Sergeant. Lock the door. I mean, isn’t it embarrassing if you can’t get in when you bring something? It’s not like it used to be, when you rang the bell and a servant would answer.” Swettenham Mrs. Mu sighed, "I remember in India," she said mournfully, "we had eighteen servants in our family--eighteen miles. Not counting the nurse. That's a matter of course. Back home, I When we were girls we always had three servants--though mother always thought it was terribly poor not to be able to afford a cook. I must say it's a very strange life now, Sergeant, though I know I shouldn't complain. The bad thing is , so many coal miners keep getting psittacosis (or is it called psittacosis?), so they have to leave the mines and become gardeners, even though they can't tell spinach from weeds." When she was almost at the door, she added: "I won't occupy your time anymore, I think you must be very busy, will there be no more accidents?" "Why must something happen, Mrs. Swettenham?" "I was just wondering because I saw you here. I thought it was a gangster. Will you tell Miss Blacklock about the limes? " Mrs. Swettenham is gone.Fletcher felt as if he had been hit unexpectedly.He had always thought that the people in the house had oiled the door, and now he saw that he was wrong.People outside could come in as long as Mickey had left in the car and Letitia Blacklock and Dora Bonner were out.An opportunity like this couldn't be easier.That meant he couldn't rule out anyone who was in the living room that night. 3 "Mergatroyd!" "What's the matter, Hinch?" "I've been thinking about it." "Really, Hinch?" "Yes, this great brain has been working. You know, Murga Troyd, there must be something wrong with the arrangements that night." "Is there a ghost?" "Nice. Curl your hair and put the towel away. Pretend it's a revolver." "Oh," said Miss Murgatroyd nervously. "Come on, this ain't going to eat you, go to the kitchen. You play the thief. You stand here. Now you want the kitchen to detain a bunch of fools. Take the flashlight and turn it on." "But it's still broad daylight!" "Use your imagination, Murgatroyd, and open it." Miss Murgatroyd complied, tucking the towel awkwardly under her arm. "Now," said Miss Hinchcliffe, "go. Remember when you played Hermione in A Midsummer Night's Dream at Ladies' College?" Ji? Go on, do it like you want. 'Hands up!' That's your line—don't put a 'please' on it." Murgatroyd obediently raised the flashlight and waved the towel, and walked towards the kitchen door. She switched the towel to her right hand, quickly turned the doorknob, took a step forward, and picked up the flashlight with her left hand. "Hands up!" she drawled, and added angrily, "Jesus, it's hard, Hinch." "why?" "This door. It's a swinging door, and it closes back, but I've got something in both hands." "Exactly," exclaimed Miss Hinchcliffe, "the parlour-door in the paddock swings too. Like this one, it doesn't stay open all the time. That's why Letty Blacklock bought it from the high-ranking Elliott's." That absolutely beautiful heavy glass door. Although she bought that before me, I don't care to say I will never forgive her. I got a good deal on the old thing, and he was willing to drop it from eight guineas to six pounds ten shillings, but then Blacklock came and bought the damn thing' I never saw anything like that Charming door stopper, glass globes that big don't come around very often. " "Perhaps the burglar held the doorstop against the door to keep it open," Murgatroyd speculated. "Use your common sense, Murgatroyd. What does he do? Does he push open the door and say 'sorry', then bend down to set the doorstop, then say 'hands up' when he's done, and then fuck him What? Try to put your shoulder against the door." "It's still embarrassing," complained Miss Murgatroyd. "Exactly," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "A revolver, a torch, a door that's pushed back—a bit too much. Isn't it? Well, what's the answer?" Miss Murgatroyd made no attempt to provide an answer.She watched her domineering friend with curiosity and admiration, and waited to be taught. "We know he's got a revolver because he fired it," said Miss Hinchcliffe, "and we know he's got a flashlight because we've all seen it—that is, unless we're all mass hypnotists." Victims of the Indian Rope Trick, as explained in "The Indian Rope Trick"—that old Easterbrook who told Indian tales was a nuisance. So now the question is, is there anybody holding the door for him?" "But who would do that?" "Yes, you may be one, Murgatroyd. As I remember. When the lights go out, you stand directly behind the door. laughed Miss Hinchcliff. "Extremely suspicious character, aren't you, Murgar Troyd?"But who would think of you?Come on, give me a towel "Thank goodness it's not a real revolver, or you'd be shooting yourself!" 4 "A very queer thing indeed," grumbled Colonel Easterbrook. "Very queer, Laura." "Really, dear?" "Come to my dressing room for a while." "What's the matter, dear?" Mrs. Easterbrook entered through the open door. "Remember that revolver of mine I showed you?" "Oh yes, Archie, a horrible and sickening black thing." "Yes. German souvenirs. It's in this drawer, isn't it?" "Yes, that's right." "But now it's gone." "Archie, that's weird:" "You didn't move?" "Oh no, I don't dare touch that horrible thing at all." "It seems that the old lady whose name is what did it?" "Oh, I don't think so for a moment. Mrs. Bart would never do such a thing. Shall I ask her?" "No—no, best not to ask. I don't want to invite gossip. Tell me, remember when I showed it to you?" "Oh, about a week ago. You were mumbling about your collar and laundry, and you opened this drawer wide open, and there's that thing right in there. I asked you what that was." "Yeah, that's right, about a week ago. You don't remember the exact date?" Mrs. Easterbrook reflected, her eyelids drawn down over her eyes, while her shrewd mind was turning. "Of course," she said, "it's Saturday. We were supposed to go to the movies that day, but we didn't make it." "Well—surely not before? Wednesday? Thursday or the week before that?" "No, dear," said Mrs. Easterbrook, "I remember it quite well. It was Saturday, the thirtieth. Because of all the trouble, it seemed like a long time had passed.I'll tell you why I remember, because it was the day after the robbery at Miss Blacklock's.Because as soon as I see your revolver, I'm reminded of what I shot the night before. " "Oh," said Colonel Easterbrook, "then I'll be relieved." "Oh, Archie, why?" "Because if my revolver is lost before it's shot—then my gun has probably been stolen by that Swiss guy." "But how did he know you had a gun?" "These gangs are incredibly well-informed. Things like locations, who lives where, they have a way of knowing." "You know a lot, Archie." "Ha, yes, saw it once or twice before. Since you distinctly remember seeing my revolver after the robbery, it's over. The Swiss can't be the same gun, can it?" "Of course it can't be." "What a relief. I was supposed to go to the police and they'd ask a lot of embarrassing questions. That's for sure. I didn't actually have a gun license at all. Somehow, once the war was over, people forgot Peacetime regulations. I see it as a war memento, not a weapon." "Yes, I understand. Of course it is." "But the question remains, where did the damn thing go?" "Maybe Bart took it. She's always seemed pretty honest, but after the robbery she got nervous and maybe wanted to get a gun for the house. Of course she would never admit it.I wouldn't even ask, or she'd be mad.So what should we do?It's a big house—I just can't—" "That's true," said Colonel Easterbrook, "and it's best not to say anything about it."