Chapter 6 Chapter 3 Death in the Mirror

At half past six the next morning, James Bennett was studying a small but complicated map by the light of the dashboard, shivering from the cold.After driving thirteen miles from this maze of London, he was completely lost, and in his perplexity he went astray as he went. Two hours ago, thinking of driving straight to White Abbey on a snowy December morning, arriving at dawn, with the scent of champagne, he felt: what a brilliant idea. At the reception before, the night I spent was okay, but it was too reserved.He also happened to meet that night, a group of restless British youths.What kind of meeting place, the awning was removed a long time ago and the lights were hung up, but they moved their positions and held a party there.After a while he sped away from Shepherd's Market and headed deep into Surrey, but only the first hour was enjoyable.

Now, he only felt drowsy, listless, and chilled. Seeing the countless oncoming headlights intertwined into a pale illusion, he felt top-heavy and dreamlike. It was almost daylight.The stars were dimming, and the east was still gray.The cold made his eyelids twitch constantly, so he had to get out of the car and stomp his feet on the side of the road to keep warm.In front, a narrow road passes between the hawthorn hedges on both sides, and the snow on the road has not yet been trampled; on the right, under the dark sky, the towering trees are like a group of ghosts; The light, the bare wilderness rises and falls one after another, extending to the mysterious highland in the distance.Toy towers, toy chimneys began to take shape, only without the smoke.

He suddenly felt inexplicably uneasy.After shifting gears, the roar of the engine disturbed the deathly world. Nothing to worry about.On the contrary, he tried to recall what Sir Henry Merrillville had said to him the previous afternoon, and found that his mind was bewildered and utterly useless.There are two telephone numbers in the wallet: one is H·M's private line over at the Whitehall office; the other is the famous Victorian telephone number 7000, extension 42, from which Humphrey Masters can be reached Sheriff - who had recently been promoted to lead the team for his work on the Plague Grange murders (mostly, of course, to Sir Henry Merrillville).None of these numbers worked because nothing happened.

As he galloped down a rough path, James Bennett thought again of Sir Henry Merrillville's enigmatic expression and earnest voice.Saying that warnings can be unwarranted.For some reason, he chuckled at this behavior against Martha Tate.James Bennett doesn't know so, just hope H.M. can understand... Martha Tate must be asleep right now.It was a crazy idea to arrive at this moment and startle the whole villa.James Bennett hopes someone is up already.He just wanted to forget about the damn candy box: last night, even seeing the bow tie on the shirt reminded him of the bow on the chocolate box, and the plump woman smirking on the lid...

In the darkness ahead, a bulletin board suddenly appeared with its head held high.James Bennett yanked the steering wheel, splashed a cloud of snow, and drove back.Go left, that's the way to go.The road is very narrow, the front is gloomy, and the shadows of trees dance on both sides.When changing gears, the engine makes a screeching sound. By the time the White Monastery could be seen, it was already broad daylight.It is some distance away from the roadside, surrounded by a stone wall standing horizontally in the snow, and two gates with iron railings.The nearby door opened.Fir and evergreen trees stood in a dark row against the white lawn, and the villas were vaguely outlined through the gaps.James Bennett saw: behind the low gray clouds high walls rose against the eaves and chimneys lined up.The building is T-shaped, with one short wing facing the road, and may have been painted with limewash.The bow window was dimly visible.Everything is still in silence.

James Bennett lifted his numb foot, stepped forward, groped his way to the door, and pushed it open.The roar of the engine scares away a singing bird.Looking ahead from the gate, a gravel express driveway winds its way up to a modern courtyard driveway to the left.On the other side of the fast lane, there is a dense oak and maple tree with intertwined branches. Only a few snowflakes pass through those branches and fall into them, reflecting faint light in the dark.Later, he remembered that it was at this moment that a certain uneasiness full of reality suddenly swept over his whole body.He followed the fast lane and pulled up to the porch drive, next to a Vux sedan with a blanket over the hood, which he remembered was John Bohun's car.

At this moment, he heard a dog barking.In the dead silence, the sudden sound made his whole body hot, and he felt a feeling similar to fear.The cry was low and hoarse, full of tremors from beginning to end.Then the voice trembled again, as if a human swallowed something. James Bennett climbed down, looking around in the dark.On the right was a covered porch with a large side door leading to the cabin and a few steps leading to a balcony half way up.Directly facing the front is a three-pronged driveway, covered with snow, just like the lawn outside.Of these three-pronged driveways, one of them goes around the back of the villa; the other goes down a dark slope, and as far as the eye can see, you can barely see a tree-lined avenue full of evergreen trees; the third winds to the left, leading to A patch of low roofs that seemed to be a stable.If you follow this direction...

The dog barked again, and it sounded like it was full of pain. "Hey, be quiet! . . . " said a distant voice, "Be quiet! . . . Stormy, sweet dog! Be quiet! . . . " The sound heard next, which James Bennett at first thought was the barking of a dog, was in fact a human voice.A low voice came down the slope behind him, a voice he had never heard before. In this half-dream, half-awake state, he even felt sick.He ran to the end of the porch drive, stuck his head out, and could see the stables now.In the cobbled courtyard stood a man in rubber boots and a corduroy jacket.He took the reins of the two frightened tame horses, trying to keep them still from kicking on the cobblestones.The groom's voice was the same as that of calling the dog just now, amidst the snorting and hooving of the horses: "Sir, sir!... Where are you? What...?"

Another voice came faintly, as if saying something like "here".Looking in the direction of the sound, James Bennett recognized a certain scene from the description he had heard. From the narrow boulevard full of evergreen trees, detour all the way, the road will gradually widen, and you will reach a circular bush, which is the water pavilion called "Queen's Mirror".The next second he recognized John Bohun's voice, and he started to run. His shoes were soaked and it was as cold as ice, although the snow was only half an inch deep.The front row of trails leads down the slope to the evergreen grove.As can be seen from the feathery covering on the top, these footprints have only recently been produced.He followed the footprints, and along the road they passed among the evergreens, and emerged again among the tangled undergrowth.It was impossible to see anything but the dull white of the water pavilion built in the snow-covered clearing beyond half an acre.With the waterside pavilion as the center, a square lowland of about sixty feet extends all around, and a slightly higher stone road passes over it, reaching the door of the low marble house.Footprints went all the way to that front door, but no footsteps coming out.

Someone appeared at the door, and the sudden aura stunned James Bennett. His heart was pounding and his throat was sore.The person who came was dressed in black, blending in with the dark gray exterior.He covered his eyes with one hand, and propped his trembling hand on the doorpost, like a wounded child.Bennett heard him sobbing. He took a step forward, making the snow crackle, causing the man to raise his head. "Bastard, who's there? . . . " It was John Bohun who spoke, his voice rising suddenly. "Who . . . ?" As if struggling to prop himself up, James Bennett stepped out of the shadow of the doorway a little.In spite of the dim light and the distance, Bennett could still see the narrow, round silhouette of him in the breeches, but because the hat was pulled down so low, his face was blurred, and he seemed to be trembling.

The answering voice echoed on the flat ground.Bennett heard the barking of dogs in the distance again. "I just got here," he said, "I... what...?" "Come here," said John Bohun. James Bennett ran crookedly across the clearing, not following the footprints on the stone path to the door.Looking at the sixty feet of snow surrounding the pavilion, he thought it was a lawn.He was about to lift his foot onto the low square when Bohun spoke. "Don't step on it! . . . " he yelled suddenly, with a sharp change in his voice, "don't step on it, you bloody fool! It's just a thin layer of ice, and there's a lake underneath. That way you go . . . " James Bennett withdrew his foot and turned toward the stone path.He stumbled, out of breath, and took three steps along the road towards the door. "She's dead," said John Bohun pitifully. In the silence, they heard the morning sparrows singing and laughing, and one flying past under the eaves.John Bohun's breath, exhaled slowly, turned into a puff of smoke in the air, and his lips did not move.He fixed his eyes dully on James Bennett's face, which looked sunken. "Did you hear what I said?" he cried, throwing his riding crop over the post. "I tell you, Martha's dead! . . . I just found out. What's the matter with you?" Can't she say a word?...Dead. Her head—all of her head..." His shoulders trembled as he looked at the fingers. "You don't believe it? . . . Go in and see. God, the loveliest woman in the world, all—all—you go and see. They killed her, they did it. She's fighting, she's determined to be. Dear--Martha. It's no good, she won't live. Nothing--what's mine--will stay. We agreed to go for a ride early in the morning, before everybody was up, and it turned out As soon as I come here..." James Bennett tried to suppress the nausea welling up in his body. "It's just," he said, "what is she doing here? I mean in this waterside pavilion." John Bohun looked at him blankly. "Oh no..." he said at last, as if an empty brain caught some obscure fact, "you don't know that? . . . You're not here, no. In fact, she insists on sleeping here, with When we were together, we kept saying that it was her style from beginning to end. But why did she want to stay here?...I shouldn't have let her decide on her own, but unfortunately I wasn't there at the time, there was no way to stop..." "Sir!..." A deep and hoarse call came from the other side of the open space.They saw the groom crane his neck and gesticulate, "Sir, who is he? Is that you calling? I saw you come in, and—" "Go back," yelled John Bohun, "I tell you, go back! . . . " he yelled, but the other party hesitated. Sit down slowly on the top step and bury your head in your hands. James Bennett walked by.He knows very well that if he doesn't hypnotize himself, he will never have the courage to go in. Facing the darkness, he will only feel empty and shaken, but he can't shrink back.He cursed himself because his right hand was shaking so much that he had to hold his right wrist with his other hand like an idiot. "Is there a light in there?" he asked. "Lights?..." John Bohen paused, then repeated, "Inside?... Oh, oh, of course. Electric lights. Funny, I forgot to turn on the lights, totally forgot. So funny, Haha! I..." Hearing the rising and falling tones, James Bennett hurried in.In total darkness, all he knew was that he was in a reception room that smelled of old wood and moldy satin, but could smell freshly sprayed perfume. The face of Martha Tate jumped vividly into James Bennett's mind.Of course, he didn't believe she was dead yet.The charm that has been built into life—the hand you touched, the lips you kissed (even if just once), and then blamed her for cheating you—didn't degenerate into lines on a portrait, or morph into Wax figures in coffins. No way, she must still be here, must still be alive; even if he couldn't see her, James Bennett could still feel her presence, the flame of her life. However, James Bennett found that the sense of emptiness was getting stronger.Fumbling along the left wall, he found an open door.In that room, he found a power switch, hesitated for a second, and turned it on. Nothing at all.After turning on the lights, nothing. James Bennett in a Stuart museum, or rather a drawing room—a real drawing room: nothing has changed here except that the tapestry is frayed, faded, dry and musty; three Bow windows hung high, with square panes; the fireplace had a blackened stone top; .This illusion was so delicate that for a while, he even suspected that there was something wrong with his rationality, and he was reluctant to find the light switch on the wall.On an overturned chair, the Stuart armrest was set into the oak filigree; the feeble flame died out, leaving a small pile of ashes.There was a tall door at the end of the room.When he opened the door in the dark, he hesitated for a long time before turning on the light. There were only two candlesticks burning candles inside, and the room was filled with a thick darkness.He first saw the tall bedstead with a red canopy, leaving a shadow, and then saw: the reflections of many mirrors interlaced in this small square room. Finally, he saw Martha Tate. James Bennett staggered and staggered to make sure that, indeed, Martha Tate was dead.She must have been dead for a long time, because her body was already cold, and this blow remained vividly in his mind. Walking back to the center of the room, he tried hard to stay calm, but unfortunately, this was also impossible. Martha Tate hunched over on the floor between the fireplace and the foot of the bed.Above the wall by the bed, dim light streamed through the large latticed windows, in the direction of the fireplace, across the room, and fell on her figure and face.The sunlight looked down softly on her face, ignoring the battered forehead and half-closed eyes.He felt that the blood on her forehead had congealed, and her long hair was disheveled. However, Martha Tate's last expression was not so much distress as surprise and contempt; when her body was struggling, it showed a force, and the resulting consciousness was mixed with that look, It made her face look very strange after death.James Bennett vaguely felt that this was the most frightening part of her features.She was all in pure white, and the white lace pajamas she was wearing were torn from the right shoulder down. murder! … because Martha Tate’s head was broken by something? ... James Bennett tried again to stay calm and sober, desperately paying attention to the details around the scene.Beneath the stone roof of the fireplace was a mass of ashes from the exhaustion of a small fire, neatly piled up and about the same size as the pinch of ashes in the other room.The end of a heavy poker, thrust into the ashes, must have been part of the overturned stove-apparatus.With a poker?Maybe so.At the edge of the hearth and the off-white carpet, he saw shards of gilded glass from an ancient water bottle strewn all over the floor, and several black stains nearby.The air is filled with the sweetness of aged wine.On the hearthstone were one or two -- yes two -- fragments of wine glasses.A small stool with gilt Japanese lacquer and an oak chair with a wicker back and red cushion were knocked over.These things are far from the fireplace.Near the fireplace, a similar-looking chair stood facing the overturned chair just now. He tried to imagine what was going on, and it wasn't difficult.Somebody came to visit Martha Tate and sat in the chair that didn't fall down.He attacked her and knocked over all the chairs, stools, water bottles, and wine glasses in the room.Martha Tate ran away from him quickly, and he ran after him, struck again, and struck her on the head long after she had fallen. The heavy air in the room, the overturned wine bottles, the old scents, and the smoke all made James Bennett dizzy.Air, clear these scenes... He walked past Jan Martha Tate, towards the direction of the big window, and suddenly found something. There were many lit matches scattered on the carpet, all towards the fireplace.James Bennett noticed them because of the colors of the remnants—green, red, blue, all matches that could be bought in the city—only at the moment, he had no idea about them.He raised his eyes and saw on the mantel-piece an open gold jewel-box containing some cigarettes and a box of ordinary safety matches.He staggered to the big window, and when he pulled it hard, the window was opened a little. Only then did he remember that in this situation, he couldn't touch anything—it didn't matter, he had one hand in the morning and still Wearing driving gloves. As soon as the window was opened, the cold air continued to intensify. James Bennett took a deep breath and closed the window again.The curtains were not drawn, and the venetians were well drawn. Looking out in a daze, James Bennett saw faint blue shadows on the traceless snow.Farther from the lake, on the edge of the forest, behind a plateau, only forty yards away were the stables, and a small green house, apparently the groom's, with a closed door.When it is covered with ice and snow, you will never think it is a lake at first glance. Well, John Ashley Bohun warned him not to... Thin ice, unmarked snow. In an instant, a terrifying and unimaginable thought crossed James Bennett's mind.He remembered that when he saw the water pavilion, the snow on all sides was flat and unmarked, only the footprints of Boheng entering.However, if the murderer is in, he has to come out.The snow field around the waterside pavilion was sixty feet wide, and it was absolutely impossible to escape without leaving footprints.There must be some trace behind it, or another entrance. This is a stupid theory.Martha Tate had been dead for hours.The murderer could have left before the snow stopped, letting the falling snow obliterate the footprints left behind.Why bother?Yet he had a vague impression that the snow had stopped early in the morning, while he was still in London. It doesn't matter…… Someone in the front room called his name nervously, waking him up.He hurried back and saw John Bohun standing in the light of candles and lights, holding a gilt water bottle which had obviously been taken from the drawing room cupboard, and drinking from it. "Huh?..." He had regained his composure. "The show is over, Bennett. It's all over. I think we'll find a doctor, or something." "Murder? . . . " asked James Bennett. "Yes," agreed John Bohun, nodding his head, "murder! . . . " His dull eyes wandered about the room. "If I ever find out who did it," he said calmly, " I would kill him. I mean it." "Last night, what happened?" "I don't know." John Bohun shook his head again and again and said with a serious face, "but we have to wake up everyone and dig out the truth from them. I was in the town before, and it was around three o'clock in the morning. Here. It's so dark, I don't even know which room they let Martha Tate sleep in. She swore she was going to stay in this place, and I don't know if she means it." He looked around again, and Said slowly, "I think: the reason is Morris's script. But she made me promise to go horseback riding with her early in the morning, so I only took a...slight nap," he looked at James with haggard eyes. Bennett, "I got up and woke the housekeeper Thompson. He didn't sleep all night because of toothache. He said she slept here, and he made an agreement with Locke to bring the horse over at seven. So, I ran here, Locke called me back—at the dog’s door—by the way, would you like something to drink? Or go to the main house and get some coffee?" Then the room fell into a long silence, broken by John Bohun, wanting to sound grim.His eyes were squeezed together. "She looks... poor, doesn't she?" asked John Bohun. "We'll find the killer," said James Bennett. "At least I know one man who can. Sorry, man, are you still...?" "Nothing," said John Bohun, "go on." James Bennett hesitated.He felt like an idiot, tense and frightened, and sad-faced. "I was just thinking, before we go outside and make more footprints... beside the ones you came in, there's nothing else left..." John Bohun turned his head and said angrily, "What the hell do you mean?" "Wait a minute!... Please calm down! I didn't say..." It was only then that James Bennett realized what he had inadvertently said, but unfortunately it was too late.This startled himself, and evidently John Bohun was startled too. "Wise, just, wise God." (He could say "God"!) "Believe me, I don't mean that at all. There is only one possibility, and the murderer may still be in the house..." "What? . . . " John Bohun's eyes widened in surprise. "Well, is there any other way to get in than the front door?" "No," said John Bohun firmly. "Are you sure the ice around the pavilion is very thin?" James Bennett continued to ask seriously. John Bohun still didn't get the point of James Bennett's question above, though he felt vaguely that it was important: "I suppose so. At least old Thompson warned me before I came out that some child……" He stopped, his eyes wide open. "You talk nonsense," said John Bohun in a hasty rage. "What good is it in making things more and more complicated? We have enough problems before us. Footprints! . . . Like the dumb detective in the script. It's dead, it's real, I just realized it. Your next sentence is, I killed her." "Anyway, don't you think we'd better make sure first that no one's hiding here?" The two sides fell into silence again.After a while, John Bohun took the lead and walked ahead, and the two began to search around in the water pavilion.Bohun was talking to himself, clutching the water bottle tightly in his arms. The search didn't take long, and not counting a small bedroom with a tacky gilded bathroom, there were only four rooms in the Waterside Pavilion.A narrow corridor - or should it be called the vestibule - ran through the house.On one side were the drawing-room and bedrooms, and on the other side, besides the music room, was a room that was a curious replica of a secret seventeenth-century salon, displaying a mahogany card table.Everything was faded, but the surfaces showed signs of sweeping and decorating, as if to entertain ghosts.Under the dim yellow candlelight, it looked like someone was decorating the temple. However, there was no one inside.They looked out of every window of the house again, and there were no traces on the snow. "I've had enough! . . . " bellowed John Bohun angrily, looking out of the card-room window and jerking his head away again. "Let's go back to the main house and stop playing fools. After the murderer left It's snowing again, covering up the tracks, that's all. Brother, don't look so sad, and leave the problem to me. If I'm going to find the murderer..." His mouth was open, and a false and fragile sarcasm flashed across his face, showing signs of neurosis.He turned aside, for, at this moment, there was a small, but persistent voice outside, calling the name of John Bohun. James Bennett observed that John Bohun was on the point of screaming at the call.

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