Miss Marple – Miss Marple and Mystery: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

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      Jack paled.

      ‘It can’t be – you don’t mean –’

      ‘Don’t excite yourself, young man. The influence of anyone at the point of death – and especially of violent death – upon their surroundings is very strong. Those surroundings might conceivably absorb that influence, transmitting it in turn to a suitably tuned receiver – in this case yourself.’

      ‘But why me?’ murmured Jack rebelliously. ‘Why not someone who could do some good?’

      ‘You are regarding the force as intelligent and purposeful, instead of blind and mechanical. I do not believe myself in earthbound spirits, haunting a spot for one particular purpose. But the thing I have seen, again and again, until I can hardly believe it to be pure coincidence, is a kind of blind groping towards justice – a subterranean moving of blind forces, always working obscurely towards that end …’

      He shook himself – as though casting off some obsession that preoccupied him, and turned to Jack with a ready smile.

      ‘Let us banish the subject – for tonight at all events,’ he suggested.

      Jack agreed readily enough, but did not find it so easy to banish the subject from his own mind.

      During the weekend, he made vigorous inquiries of his own, but succeeded in eliciting little more than the doctor had done. He had definitely given up playing golf before breakfast.

      The next link in the chain came from an unexpected quarter. On getting back one day, Jack was informed that a young lady was waiting to see him. To his intense surprise it proved to be the girl of the garden – the pansy girl, as he always called her in his own mind. She was very nervous and confused.

      ‘You will forgive me, Monsieur, for coming to seek you like this? But there is something I want to tell you – I –’

      She looked round uncertainly.

      ‘Come in here,’ said Jack promptly, leading the way into the now deserted ‘Ladies’ Drawing-room’ of the hotel, a dreary apartment, with a good deal of red plush about it. ‘Now, sit down, Miss, Miss –’

      ‘Marchaud, Monsieur, Felise Marchaud.’

      ‘Sit down, Mademoiselle Marchaud, and tell me all about it.’

      Felise sat down obediently. She was dressed in dark green today, and the beauty and charm of the proud little face was more evident than ever. Jack’s heart beat faster as he sat down beside her.

      ‘It is like this,’ explained Felise. ‘We have been here but a short time, and from the beginning we hear the house – our so sweet little house – is haunted. No servant will stay in it. That does not matter so much – me, I can do the menage and cook easily enough.’

      ‘Angel,’ thought the infatuated young man. ‘She’s wonderful.’

      But he maintained an outward semblance of businesslike attention.

      ‘This talk of ghosts, I think it is all folly – that is until four days ago. Monsieur, four nights running, I have had the same dream. A lady stands there – she is beautiful, tall and very fair. In her hands she holds a blue china jar. She is distressed – very distressed, and continually she holds out the jar to me, as though imploring me to do something with it – but alas! she cannot speak, and I – I do not know what she asks. That was the dream for the first two nights – but the night before last, there was more of it. She and the blue jar faded away, and suddenly I heard her voice crying out – I know it is her voice, you comprehend – and, oh! Monsieur, the words she says are those you spoke to me that morning. “Murder – Help! Murder!” I awoke in terror. I say to myself – it is a nightmare, the words you heard are an accident. But last night the dream came again. Monsieur, what is it? You too have heard. What shall we do?’

      Felise’s face was terrified. Her small hands clasped themselves together, and she gazed appealingly at Jack. The latter affected an unconcern he did not feel.

      ‘That’s all right, Mademoiselle Marchaud. You mustn’t worry. I tell you what I’d like you to do, if you don’t mind, repeat the whole story to a friend of mine who is staying here, a Dr Lavington.’

      Felise signified her willingness to adopt this course, and Jack went off in search of Lavington. He returned with him a few minutes later.

      Lavington gave the girl a keen scrutiny as he acknowledged Jack’s hurried introductions. With a few reassuring words, he soon put the girl at her ease, and he, in his turn, listened attentively to her story.

      ‘Very curious,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘You have told your father of this?’

      Felise shook her head.

      ‘I have not liked to worry him. He is very ill still’ – her eyes filled with tears – ‘I keep from him anything that might excite or agitate him.’

      ‘I understand,’ said Lavington kindly. ‘And I am glad you came to us, Mademoiselle Marchaud. Hartington here, as you know, had an experience something similar to yours. I think I may say that we are well on the track now. There is nothing else that you can think of?’

      Felise gave a quick movement.

      ‘Of course! How stupid I am. It is the point of the whole story. Look, Monsieur, at what I found at the back of one of the cupboards where it had slipped behind the shelf.’

      She held out to them a dirty piece of drawing-paper on which was executed roughly in water colours a sketch of a woman. It was a mere daub, but the likeness was probably good enough. It represented a tall fair woman, with something subtly un-English about her face. She was standing by a table on which was standing a blue china jar.

      ‘I only found it this morning,’ explained Felise. ‘Monsieur le docteur, that is the face of the woman I saw in my dream, and that is the identical blue jar.’

      ‘Extraordinary,’ commented Lavington. ‘The key to the mystery is evidently the blue jar. It looks like a Chinese jar to me, probably an old one. It seems to have a curious raised pattern over it.’

      ‘It is Chinese,’ declared Jack. ‘I have seen an exactly similar one in my uncle’s collection – he is a great collector of Chinese porcelain, you know, and I remember noticing a jar just like this a short time ago.’

      ‘The Chinese jar,’ mused Lavington. He remained a minute or two lost in thought, then raised his head suddenly, a curious light shining in his eyes. ‘Hartington, how long has your uncle had that jar?’

      ‘How long? I really don’t know.’

      ‘Think. Did he buy it lately?’

      ‘I don’t know – yes, I believe he did, now I come to think of it. I’m not very interested in porcelain myself, but I remember his showing me his “recent acquisitions,” and this was one of them.’

      ‘Less than two months ago? The Turners left Heather Cottage just two months ago.’

      ‘Yes, I believe it was.’

      ‘Your СКАЧАТЬ