Chapter 5 Chapter Four

(one) I came out of the Old Victoria Theatre, and my friend Hermia Racliffe walked beside me.We've just finished watching "Macbeth."It was raining hard, and as we ran across the street to where I parked, Hermia said unfairly that it was bound to rain whoever went to that theater. "That's it." I disagreed with her and said she only remembered when it rained.As I stepped on the clutch, Hermia said again: "When I was in Glyndebourne, I was always lucky. I really can't think of anything else but perfection. The music, the flowers, and the white flower beds are the most special." gone."

We talked for a while about Glyndebourne and the music there, and Hermia said, "We're going to Dover for breakfast, aren't we?" "Dover? What a strange idea. I thought I was going to 'Garden of Fantasy'. After seeing the bloody and melancholy 'Macbeth', I should have a good meal. Shakespeare always makes me want to gobble it up. " "Yeah, so is Wagner. As for why I said I'm going to Dover, it's because you're driving in that direction." "There's a detour here." I explained. "But you've turned the corner, and you're on the Old Kent Road."

I looked around and had to admit that Hermia was right again as usual. "I can't always get my way around here," I apologized. "It's easy to get people wrong," Hermia agreed, "They all go around Waterloo Station." Finally, I managed to drive across Westminster Bridge, and we continued to discuss the "Macbeth" we had just seen. Hermia Racliffe was a beautiful woman of twenty-eight, with very elegant and perfect features, and her dark chestnut hair was coiled behind her neck.My sister keeps saying she's "Mark's girlfriend," but that tone of voice always annoys me. The servants of the "Fantasy Garden" welcomed us warmly and led us to a small table against a wall of crimson velvet.Business is always good here due to the attentive service and nice atmosphere, so the tables are fairly close together.When we sat down, the neighbors greeted us happily.David Ardenly, a lecturer in history at Oxford University, introduced his companion, a girl with a fashionable hairstyle.That hairstyle is very complicated, with one piece protruding in the east and one corner protruding in the west. Strangely, it looks very appropriate on her head.She had big blue eyes and her mouth was always ajar, and like all of David's girlfriends, she was stupid.David himself is a very bright young man, but he can only get a chance to rest if he gets along with silly girls.

"This is my baby Barbie," he introduced. "This is Mark, and this is Hermia. They're both serious and well-learned people, and you have to learn a lot to catch up with them. We just finished watching 'Just for fun', that's great! I think you've just finished Shakespeare or Ibsen." "'Macbeth' seen at the Old Victoria Theatre." "I really like that scene," Hermia said. "The lighting is very interesting. I have never seen such a well-arranged banquet." "Oh, what about the witch?" "Terrible!" said Hermia. "Really." David agreed. "There seems to be an element of pantomime," he said: "they're all bouncing around like the devil with a thousand faces. You can't expect a good fairy in shining white to say in a monotonous voice: Your evil Strength does not triumph. In the end, only Macbeth is mad."

We all laughed, but David, who is always good at observing words and expressions, glanced at me shrewdly and asked: "what happened to you?" "It's nothing, I just remembered that in a pantomime I watched that day, there were evil gods, demon kings, and yes—there were also good fairies." "where?" "Oh, at a coffee shop in Charles." "Huh, you're really smart and stylish, aren't you, Mark? And you're in Charles's circle, rich girls in tights, the kind of place where you hang out with unimpressive boys. Barbie should be in that place." , isn't it? Duckling."

Barbie's eyes widened even further. "I don't like Charles," she argues. "Fantasy is so, so much better than that! Such a great meal." "Very well, Barbie, you ain't rich enough anyway. Let's talk about 'Macbeth' and the scary witches, Mark. I know what I'd do with those witches if I were producing them." Previously at school, David was quite active in the theater troupe. "Oh, tell me." "I'll make them look ordinary, just sly and quiet old ladies, like country witches." "But there aren't any witches these days," said Barbie, glaring at him.

"That's because you live in London. Now in every village in the countryside of England, there is still a witch. The old lady Blake in the third hut on the hill, children are not allowed to disturb her, and others often Give her eggs or homemade pastries because if you piss her off, your cows won't be milked, your potato harvest will be a mess, or little Johnny will sprain his foot. Although no one says no Offending old Mrs. Black, but everyone 'in their hearts' knows it all!" "You're such a joker," Barbie said sullenly. "No, I'm not kidding, it's the truth, right? Mark."

"However, knowledge is improving day by day, and education is becoming more and more popular. No one will be superstitious anymore." Hermia said in a skeptical tone. "But it's different in the country. Don't you, Mark." "You may be right," I said slowly, "but I'm not sure, because I haven't lived in the country for long." "I don't understand how you can portray witches as ordinary old ladies." Hermia said to David: "Of course they have a mysterious and weird atmosphere." "But when you think about it," said David, "it's about as crazy as it gets. If there's a guy yelling and yelling and all covered in straw and staggering around, it ain't so scary at all. But I remember once sending a message for a doctor who worked in a mental hospital. When I was waiting for him in the room, there was an old lady who looked very kind and was drinking milk. She chatted with me casually about the weather, and then suddenly bowed down. He leaned forward and whispered to me: "'Is that poor boy buried behind the fire your son? ’” Then she nodded and said, “Ten ten o’clock in the evening, which is exactly on time every day, and you have to pretend you didn’t see the blood.”

"It's her serious tone that makes people shudder, and goose bumps all over her body." "There's 'really' someone buried behind the stove?" Barbie asked. David ignored her and said: "Let's talk about those psychic mediums, who are in a trance for a while, knock and beat in the dark room for a while, and finally sit up and pat their heads and then go home to have a dinner with fish and yams. It seems very normal and very happy. woman." "So you think witches are just a few old Scottish ladies with prescience who secretly use their witchcraft, cast spells around a cauldron, and summon some ghosts, but look like ordinary people on the surface? Oh—— It’s quite an attractive idea.”

"I hope you can find an actor to play this kind of role for you," Hermia said coldly. "You're right," David admitted, "as soon as there is a hint of madness in the script, the actor will play hard immediately, and the same will be the case if there is a sudden death. But no actor can die quietly. Going down to die, you must growl, fall, roll your eyes, pant, hold your heart, hold your head, and perform exaggeratedly to be enjoyable. Speaking of performances, what do you think of Fielding's 'Macbeth'? Criticism People have a lot of different opinions about him."

"I thought the scene with the doctor after the sleepwalking scene was horrible," said Hermia. "'Can't you help a sick mind?' He made me discover something I never thought of before—he Literally ordering the doctor to kill her, but he did love his wife. He showed the struggle between fear and love. 'And then you too should die.' were the most painful words I've ever heard. " "Shakespeare might have been surprised to see his play so performed," I said coldly. "I think the Poppaiji Company has reduced a lot of the spirit of his original book," David said. Hermia murmured: "The performer will always find a way to surprise the author." "Shakespeare's plays weren't written by some guy called Bacon?" Barbie asked. "That theory is outdated," David said to her affectionately. "What else do 'you' know about Bacon?" "He invented gunpowder," said Barbie triumphantly. David looked at us and said: "You know now why I love this girl? It's always surprising what she knows. It's Francis, my dear, not Roger." "I thought it would be interesting for Fielding to play the third murderer. Hasn't that happened before?" Hermia asked. "I think so," David said. "It was so convenient in those days. If you wanted to get rid of someone, you could find a murderer for you at any time. It would be interesting if it could still be like this now." "But there are more," Hermia argued, "those local hooligans, like Chicago." "Oh," David said, "I don't mean that kind of person, I mean the average person wants to get rid of someone—like a business rival, a rich old aunt, etc. If only modern people could make a phone call , and said: 'Send two killers, please?' How convenient that would be." Everyone couldn't help laughing. "But if you really want to do that, there's a way, right?" Barbie said. We looked at her puzzled. "What way, honey?" David asked. "Oh, I mean, there are people who can do it... like you said, normal people like us. But I guess it's expensive." Barbie's eyes are wide open, innocent looking, and her lips are parted. "What are you talking about?" David asked curiously. Barbie seemed confused. "Oh—I think—I was mistaken. I meant the 'white horse' thing." "White 'horse'? What kind of white horse?" Barbie blushed and lowered her eyes. "I'm so silly, I—just heard it said—but I was totally mistaken." "Here, have some pudding," David said thoughtfully. (two) Everyone has probably had a strange experience, that is, after hearing one thing, they often encounter it again within twenty-four hours.I am this time. The next morning, the phone rang and I went to answer it. "Fleissmann seven three eight four one." There was a gasping voice on the other end of the phone, and the other party was out of breath, but said firmly: "I've thought about it, I'll go!" I use my brain quickly. "That's great," I said stalling; "Oh you—are—" "After all," said the voice, "you can't be struck twice by lightning!" "Are you sure you made the right call?" "Of course you're Mark Easterbrook, aren't you?" "By the way!" said I, "you are Mrs. Oliver." "Oh," said the voice, "you didn't know who I was just now? I never thought of it. I was talking about Rhoda's fair, and if she wants me to go, I will." "It's very kind of you, they'll appreciate it." "There won't be a party?" asked Mrs. Oliver. She added: "You know, those people who saw me drinking ginger wine or tomato juice and not writing, but still asked me 'Are I writing now?' And said they liked my books, which is of course very flattering Like, the problem is that I never know how to answer, if I say: 'I'm very happy.' It sounds as cliché as 'Nice to meet you'. Well, of course it is. You think they don't Shall I go down to the 'Pink Horse' for a drink?" "'Pink Horse'?" "Yes, White Horse, I mean the hotel. I can't do anything about the hotel. I can barely drink a beer, but I will feel very sad." "What do you mean by 'white horse'?" "There's a hotel called the 'White Horse', isn't it? Or the 'Pink Horse', but maybe somewhere else, just my own imagination. I do sometimes." "What happened to the parrot?" I asked. "Parrot?" Mrs. Oliver seemed very puzzled. "And crickets." "Indeed," said Mrs. Oliver solemnly, "I must have lost my head." After speaking, I hung up the phone. While I was still thinking about the "White Horse" I heard for the second time, the phone rang again. This time it was Sommers White, the lawyer, who told me that my godmother Mrs. Hedges, Mrs. Dubeau, had given me permission in his will to select three paintings from her collection. "Of course, there are no famous paintings of particular value," said Mr. Sommers White in a very melancholy voice, "but as far as I know, you have expressed your appreciation for some of the paintings in the deceased's collection." "She has some nice water-colours of Indian landscapes," I said. "I thought you must have written me about it, but I forgot about it." "True," said Mr. Sommers White; "but the terms of the will have come into operation, and the executive is arranging the sale of her London house, and if you can find time to come to Arrasmere Square sometime soon—" "I'm coming now," I said. Apparently, this is not a morning for work. (three) With my choice of three watercolors under my arm, I left 49 Arrasmere Square, almost immediately bumping into a person who was about to enter.After we apologized to each other, I was about to hail a taxi when I suddenly remembered something and immediately turned around and asked, "Hi — aren't you Corrigan?" "Yeah—you—that's right—you're Mark Easterbrook!" Jim Corrigan and I had been friends at Oxford, but we hadn't seen each other for at least fifteen years or so. "I know you look familiar, but I just can't remember it all at once." Corrigan said: "I often see your articles and like to read them very much." "How have you been? Are you really doing research like you'd hoped?" Corrigan sighed. “It’s hard, it’s too expensive—unless you can find an obedient millionaire, or a foundation with few opinions.” "Liver leeches, right?" "Your memory is really good! No, I have given up the liver leech. What I am most interested in now is a gland related to the spleen. You must have never heard of it. On the surface, it seems that it has no effect at all!" His tone carried the research enthusiasm of a scientist. "Then why do you study it?" "Oh," said Corrigan a little apologetically, "I think this gland affects behavior. In a nutshell, it's like the fluid you need to brake your car. Without that fluid, the brakes don't work. .In the human body, too, if the secretion of this gland is insufficient, it may—I only say 'possible'—make a person commit a crime." I whistled. "And what about the theory of 'original sin'?" "Yeah," said Corrigan, "the vicar wouldn't welcome my theory, would he? Honestly, it's unfortunate that no one has taken an interest in it so far. That's why I'm still working as a coroner in the police It's also quite interesting, and you can see a lot of criminal patterns. Let's not talk about it, lest you get impatient-how about having lunch together?" "Yes! But aren't you going there?" I nodded towards the room behind Corrigan. "No," said Corrigan. "I was just trying to take my chances." "There's only one caretaker there, no one else." "I suppose so, but I'd like to know a little about the late Ms. Hedges-Dubeau." "I must know more than that administrator, because she's my godmother." "Really? Then I'm very lucky. Where shall we have lunch? There is a small restaurant in Landes Square. It is not luxurious, but there is a special seafood soup that is very good." When we sat down in the little restaurant, a pale boy in French sailor trousers brought a steaming pot of soup. "Excellent," I said as I tasted it. "Okay, Corrigan, what do you want to know? By the way, why?" "It will be a long story to talk about the reason," my friend said, "tell me first what kind of old lady she is." I thought about it and replied: "She was an old-fashioned woman, the widow of a late governor of some island, rich and comfortable, and went abroad in winter to summer resorts. Her house was large, with lots of Victorian furniture, and various A good or bad Victorian silverware. She has no children of her own, but a pair of well-bred poodles, whom she loves dearly. She is a staunch conservative, good-natured, but authoritarian, old To insist on her own opinion. What more do you want to know?" "I don't know," said Corrigan. "Is it possible that she has been blackmailed as far as you know?" "Extortion?" I asked unexpectedly, "I think it's too impossible. What's going on?" And so, for the first time, I heard the story of Father Gorman's murder. I put down my spoon and asked: "Do you have that list?" "It's not the original, I copied it, and it's here." I took the paper he took out of his pocket and read: "Parkinson? I know two Parkinsons, Arthur, in the Navy, and Henry, in some government department. O'Mara--I know a Major O'Mara. Sandford, there was an old preacher in my boyhood named Sandford. Tuckerton—” I hesitated, “Tuckerton . Corrigan looked at me curiously. "As far as I know, it's possible. Who is she? What does she do?" "She's doing nothing now, and her obituary was in the papers about a week ago." "That's useless." I continue to look at the list: "Shaw . . . I knew a dentist named Shaw, and Jeremy Shaw, . you?" "I hope not, I don't think it's a good thing to be on this blacklist." "Perhaps. How did you think it had anything to do with blackmail?" "If I remember correctly, this is Inspector Li Jun's opinion, and it seems very likely. But there are many other possibilities, such as drug smugglers or secret agents, we are not sure at all right now. But One thing is absolutely unmistakable, this list is very important, the other party even did not hesitate to use murder to obtain this list." I asked curiously, "Have you always been so interested in your work and what it means to the police?" "Not at all. I am interested in the criminal's personality, background, living environment, and especially the health of the glands!" "Then why are you so interested in this list?" "God knows!" Corrigan said slowly: "Maybe it's because I saw my own name on it. The one named Corrigan can be saved! One person named Corrigan can save other people named Corrigan." "Save? So, you've confirmed that the people on the list are all victims, not criminals? But isn't it possible for both?" "Very true. It's strange that I'm so sure. Maybe it's just a sixth sense, maybe it's something to do with Father Gorman. I rarely meet him, but he's a good guy, and the congregation loves him. He He is the kind of tough and aggressive person, and I can't forget how important he is to this list..." "Has the police found any clues yet?" "Yes, but the matter is not that simple. Many things must be investigated, and the background of the woman who went to the priest that night must also be investigated." "Who is she?" "Obviously no mystery—a widow. We figured her husband might have something to do with horse racing, but it doesn't look like it. She works for a small company, looking into consumption, and there's nothing wrong with that. It's a good company, and to her Don't know much. She's from the North of England--Lancashire. There's only one odd thing about her, and that's how little personal things she has." I shrugged. "I think a lot of people are like that, we just don't know it. It's a lonely world." "Yes." "In short, you decided to intervene?" "Just a little bit of information. Hedges-Dubber is not a common name, and I thought I might be able to find out something about this lady—" He didn't finish the sentence, "but from what you just told me , seems to have no useful clues." "It's not like a narcotics smuggler, it's not like a spy," I assured him. "She's been living a pretty good life, nothing to blackmail, I can't think of a list where she'd be on. .Her jewelry is kept in the bank, so the robbers won't lay hands on her." "Did you know anyone else named Hedges-Dubb? Her son, for instance?" "She has no children, but a nephew and a niece, but with different names. Her husband is an only child." Corrigan casually remarked that I had been a great help, then looked at his watch and said cheerfully that he had to fetch someone, and we parted. I was still thinking about it until I got home, and I couldn't settle down to do things. Finally, I called David Yadingli on the spur of the moment. "David? I'm Mark. What's the real name of that Barbie girl you took that night?" "What? Want to chase my horse?" David seemed to find it very interesting. "Anyway, you have plenty of girlfriends," I told him, "It doesn't matter if you give up one." "Dude, don't you already have a big burden? I thought you and her were settled." "It's settled." It's a disgusting term, but I think it's true for my relationship with Hermia.But why do I feel a little depressed?In the back of my mind I always felt that we were going to get married one day... Of all the people I know, I like her.We have a lot in common... I don't know why, but I suddenly hate it.I can almost see our future: Hermia and I go to the noble theater together, we discuss art, music, and yes, Hermia is an impeccable companion. But there is a voice in my subconscious telling me that these are really not interesting. I was in shock. "Asleep?" David asked. "Of course not. To be honest, I find your friend Barbie very rechargeable." "Well said, yes, her name is Pamela Sterling, and she works in an artificial flower shop in Mayfair." He gave me the address. "Take her out and have a good rest," he said in an elder-like friendly tone, "you will feel a lot more relaxed. That girl doesn't understand anything—it really has a blank head. She believes everything you say. So don't Too intoxicated in fantasy." He hung up the phone. (Four) I broke into the "Greenhouse Co., Ltd." with a little anxiety, and a burst of overly strong scent of gardenia flowers choked me so much that I couldn't help but take a few steps back.There were a few girls in light green uniforms, all of whom looked like Barbies.At last, I managed to recognize her.She was having some trouble spelling out an address.After writing the address, she made another mistake when she was looking for change for the five pound note that the customer paid. As soon as she was free, I immediately called to stop her. "We met the other night—when you were with David Ardenly," I reminded her. "Oh! That's right!" Barbie said kindly, but her eyes were vaguely looking over my head. "I want to ask something." I suddenly felt uneasy: "Maybe I should buy some flowers first?" Like an automated machine that hit the right button, she replied, "We've got a lot of lovely roses that just arrived today," "Just these yellow roses." There were some roses elsewhere. "How much?" "Very cheap," said Barbie in a sweet, intoxicating voice, "five shillings a flower." I swallowed and asked for six. "Would you like to set off these particularly good leaves?" I looked suspiciously at the leaves that were about to wither and turned yellow, but I picked out some tender asparagus leaves, but this way, Barbie seemed to think less of me. When Barbie awkwardly wrapped the asparagus leaves around the rose, I picked up the topic again: "I want to ask you something; that night, you seemed to mention something called a 'white horse'." Barbie seemed taken aback and dropped the whole bouquet on the floor. "Can you tell me more details?" Barbie stood up straight and asked: "What did you say?" "I want to ask you about the 'White Horse'." "White horse? What do you mean?" "Didn't you mention it that night?" "I don't believe I've ever said or heard of that." "Someone must have told you, who is it?" Barbie took a deep breath and said slowly: "I don't know what you're talking about at all, and the boss doesn't allow us to chat with customers." She put the bill in front of me and said, "I'm sorry, it's thirty-five shillings." I gave her two pounds, and she stuffed six As soon as the shilling was in my hand, I turned to another guest. I noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. I walked out slowly.After walking for a while, I suddenly realized that she had miscalculated the price (asparagus leaf was seven shillings six), and gave me too much change.The reason why she made a wrong calculation was obviously because she was focusing on other aspects. I thought again of that lovely face and those big blue eyes with something hidden in them. "Scared!" I said to myself, "terrified! But why? Why?"