Agatha Christie

The Murder at the Vicarage

A Miss Marple Mystery

To Rosalind

One

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later developments.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.

My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:

âThatâll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, wonât you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.â

Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike voice, âGreens,â and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.

My wife said in a sympathetic voice: âHas he been very trying?â

I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, âNo, thank you,â and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.

âIt is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,â said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.

I was inclined to agree with her. My wifeâs name is Griseldaâa highly suitable name for a parsonâs wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.

I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda to marry me at the end of twenty-four hoursâ acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations is the most important consideration.

Griselda is nearly twenty years younger than myself. She is most distractingly pretty and quite incapable of taking anything seriously. She is incompetent in every way, and extremely trying to live with. She treats the parish as a kind of huge joke arranged for her amusement. I have endeavoured to form her mind and failed. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is desirable for the clergy. I have frequently hinted as much to Griselda, but she has only laughed.

âMy dear,â I said, âif you would only exercise a little careââ

âI do sometimes,â said Griselda. âBut, on the whole, I think things go worse when Iâm trying. Iâm evidently not a housekeeper by nature. I find it better to leave things to Mary and just make up my mind to be uncomfortable and have nasty things to eat.â

âAnd what about your husband, my dear?â I said reproachfully, and proceeding to follow the example of the devil in quoting Scripture for his own ends I added: âShe looketh to the ways of her householdâ¦.â

âThink how lucky you are not to be torn to pieces by lions,â said Griselda, quickly interrupting. âOr burnt at the stake. Bad food and lots of dust and dead wasps is really nothing to make a fuss about. Tell me more about Colonel Protheroe. At any rate the early Christians were lucky enough not to have churchwardens.â

âPompous old brute,â said Dennis. âNo wonder his first wife ran away from him.â

âI donât see what else she could do,â said my wife.

âGriselda,â I said sharply. âI will not have you speaking in that way.â

âDarling,â said my wife affectionately. âTell me about him. What was the trouble? Was it Mr. Hawesâs becking and nodding and crossing himself every other minute?â

Hawes is our new curate. He has been with us just over three weeks. He has High Church views and fasts on Fridays. Colonel Protheroe is a great opposer of ritual in any form.

âNot this time. He did touch on it in passing. No, the whole trouble arose out of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs wretched pound note.â

Mrs. Price Ridley is a devout member of my congregation. Attending early service on the anniversary of her sonâs death, she put a pound note in the offertory bag. Later, reading the amount of the collection posted up, she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest item mentioned.

She complained to me about it, and I pointed out, very reasonably, that she must have made a mistake.

âWeâre none of us so young as we were,â I said, trying to turn it off tactfully. âAnd we must pay the penalty of advancing years.â

Strangely enough, my words only seemed to incense her further. She said that things had a very odd look and that she was surprised I didnât think so also. And she flounced away and, I gather, took her troubles to Colonel Protheroe. Protheroe is the kind of man who enjoys making a fuss on every conceivable occasion. He made a fuss. It is a pity he made it on a Wednesday. I teach in the Church Day School on Wednesday mornings, a proceeding that causes me acute nervousness and leaves me unsettled for the rest of the day.

âWell, I suppose he must have some fun,â said my wife, with the air of trying to sum up the position impartially. âNobody flutters round him and calls him âthe dear Vicar,â and embroiders awful slippers for him, and gives him bedsocks for Christmas. Both his wife and his daughter are fed up to the teeth with him. I suppose it makes him happy to feel important somewhere.â

âHe neednât be offensive about it,â I said with some heat. âI donât think he quite realized the implications of what he was saying. He wants to go over all the Church accountsâin case of defalcationsâthat was the word he used. Defalcations! Does he suspect me of embezzling the Church funds?â

âNobody would suspect you of anything, darling,â said Griselda. âYouâre so transparently above suspicion that really it would be a marvellous opportunity. I wish youâd embezzle the S.P.G. funds. I hate missionariesâI always have.â

I would have reproved her for that sentiment, but Mary entered at that moment with a partially cooked rice pudding. I made a mild protest, but Griselda said that the Japanese always ate half-cooked rice and had marvellous brains in consequence.

âI dare say,â she said, âthat if you had a rice pudding like this every day till Sunday, youâd preach the most marvellous sermon.â

âHeaven forbid,â I said with a shudder.

âProtheroeâs coming over tomorrow evening and weâre going over the accounts together,â I went on. âI must finish preparing my talk for the C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirleyâs Reality that I havenât got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?â

âMy duty,â said Griselda. âMy duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four thirty.â

âWho is coming?â

Griselda ticked them off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face.

âMrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.â

âI rather like Miss Marple,â I said. âShe has, at least, a sense of humour.â

âSheâs the worst cat in the village,â said Griselda. âAnd she always knows every single thing that happensâand draws the worst inferences from it.â

Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.

âWell, donât expect me in for tea, Griselda,â said Dennis.

âBeast!â said Griselda.

âYes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis today.â

âBeast!â said Griselda again.

Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.

âI wonder what we shall have for tea,â said Griselda, seating herself on my writing table. âDr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, Iâm sure we shall have Mrs. Lestrange for tea. Itâs so mysterious, isnât it, her arriving like this and taking a house down here, and hardly ever going outside it? Makes one think of detective stories. You knowââWho was she, the mysterious woman with the pale, beautiful face? What was her past history? Nobody knew. There was something faintly sinister about her.â I believe Dr. Haydock knows something about her.â

âYou read too many detective stories, Griselda,â I observed mildly.

âWhat about you?â she retorted. âI was looking everywhere for The Stain on the Stairs the other day when you were in here writing a sermon. And at last I came in to ask you if youâd seen it anywhere, and what did I find?â

I had the grace to blush.

âI picked it up at random. A chance sentence caught my eye andâ¦.â

âI know those chance sentences,â said Griselda. She quoted impressively, ââAnd then a very curious thing happenedâGriselda rose, crossed the room and kissed her elderly husband affectionately.ââ She suited the action to the word.

âIs that a very curious thing?â I inquired.

âOf course it is,â said Griselda. âDo you realize, Len, that I might have married a Cabinet Minister, a Baronet, a rich Company Promoter, three subalterns and a neâer-do-weel with attractive manners, and that instead I chose you? Didnât it astonish you very much?â

âAt the time it did,â I replied. âI have often wondered why you did it.â

Griselda laughed.

âIt made me feel so powerful,â she murmured. âThe others thought me simply wonderful and of course it would have been very nice for them to have me. But Iâm everything you most dislike and disapprove of, and yet you couldnât withstand me! My vanity couldnât hold out against that. Itâs so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in their cap. I make you frightfully uncomfortable and stir you up the wrong way the whole time, and yet you adore me madly. You adore me madly, donât you?â

âNaturally I am very fond of you, my dear.â

âOh! Len, you adore me. Do you remember that day when I stayed up in town and sent you a wire you never got because the postmistressâs sister was having twins and she forgot to send it round? The state you got into and you telephoned Scotland Yard and made the most frightful fuss.â

There are things one hates being reminded of. I had really been strangely foolish on the occasion in question. I said:

âIf you donât mind, dear, I want to get on with the C.E.M.S.â

Griselda gave a sigh of intense irritation, ruffled my hair up on end, smoothed it down again, said:

âYou donât deserve me. You really donât. Iâll have an affair with the artist. I willâreally and truly. And then think of the scandal in the parish.â

âThereâs a good deal already,â I said mildly.

Griselda laughed, blew me a kiss, and departed through the window.

Two

Griselda is a very irritating woman. On leaving the luncheon table, I had felt myself to be in a good mood for preparing a really forceful address for the Church of England Menâs Society. Now I felt restless and disturbed.

Just when I was really settling down to it, Lettice Protheroe drifted in.

I use the word drifted advisedly. I have read novels in which young people are described as bursting with energyâjoie de vivre, the magnificent vitality of youth â¦ Personally, all the young people I come across have the air of animal wraiths.

Lettice was particularly wraithlike this afternoon. She is a pretty girl, very tall and fair and completely vague. She drifted through the French window, absently pulled off the yellow beret she was wearing and murmured vaguely with a kind of faraway surprise: âOh! itâs you.â

There is a path from Old Hall through the woods which comes out by our garden gate, so that most people coming from there come in at that gate and up to the study window instead of going a long way round by the road and coming to the front door. I was not surprised at Lettice coming in this way, but I did a little resent her attitude.

If you come to a Vicarage, you ought to be prepared to find a Vicar.

She came in and collapsed in a crumpled heap in one of my big armchairs. She plucked aimlessly at her hair, staring at the ceiling.

âIs Dennis anywhere about?â

âI havenât seen him since lunch. I understood he was going to play tennis at your place.â

âOh!â said Lettice. âI hope he isnât. He wonât find anybody there.â

âHe said you asked him.â

âI believe I did. Only that was Friday. And todayâs Tuesday.â

âItâs Wednesday,â I said.

âOh, how dreadful!â said Lettice. âThat means that Iâve forgotten to go to lunch with some people for the third time.â

Fortunately it didnât seem to worry her much.

âIs Griselda anywhere about?â

âI expect youâll find her in the studio in the gardenâsitting to Lawrence Redding.â

âThereâs been quite a shemozzle about him,â said Lettice. âWith father, you know. Fatherâs dreadful.â

âWhat was the sheâwhatever it was about?â I inquired.

âAbout his painting me. Father found out about it. Why shouldnât I be painted in my bathing dress? If I go on a beach in it, why shouldnât I be painted in it?â

Lettice paused and then went on.

âItâs really absurdâfather forbidding a young man the house. Of course, Lawrence and I simply shriek about it. I shall come and be done here in your studio.â

âNo, my dear,â I said. âNot if your father forbids it.â

âOh! dear,â said Lettice, sighing. âHow tiresome everyone is. I feel shattered. Definitely. If only I had some money Iâd go away, but without it I canât. If only father would be decent and die, I should be all right.â

âYou must not say things like that, Lettice.â

âWell, if he doesnât want me to want him to die, he shouldnât be so horrible over money. I donât wonder mother left him. Do you know, for years I believed she was dead. What sort of a young man did she run away with? Was he nice?â

âIt was before your father came to live here.â

âI wonder whatâs become of her. I expect Anne will have an affair with someone soon. Anne hates meâsheâs quite decent to me, but she hates me. Sheâs getting old and she doesnât like it. Thatâs the age you break out, you know.â

I wondered if Lettice was going to spend the entire afternoon in my study.

âYou havenât seen my gramophone records, have you?â she asked.

âNo.â

âHow tiresome. I know Iâve left them somewhere. And Iâve lost the dog. And my wristwatch is somewhere, only it doesnât much matter because it wonât go. Oh! dear, I am so sleepy. I canât think why, because I didnât get up till eleven. But lifeâs very shattering, donât you think? Oh! dear, I must go. Iâm going to see Dr. Stoneâs barrow at three oâclock.â

I glanced at the clock and remarked that it was now five-and-twenty to four.

âOh! Is it? How dreadful. I wonder if theyâve waited or if theyâve gone without me. I suppose Iâd better go down and do something about it.â

She got up and drifted out again, murmuring over her shoulder:

âYouâll tell Dennis, wonât you?â

I said âYesâ mechanically, only realizing too late that I had no idea what it was I was to tell Dennis. But I reflected that in all probability it did not matter. I fell to cogitating on the subject of Dr. Stone, a well-known archaeologist who had recently come to stay at the Blue Boar, whilst he superintended the excavation of a barrow situated on Colonel Protheroeâs property. There had already been several disputes between him and the Colonel. I was amused at his appointment to take Lettice to see the operations.

It occurred to me that Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx. I wondered how she would get on with the archaeologistâs secretary, Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy young woman of twenty-five, noisy in manner, with a high colour, fine animal spirits and a mouth that always seems to have more than its full share of teeth.

Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no better than she should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who purposes to become Mrs. Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every way a great contrast to Lettice.

I could imagine that the state of things at Old Hall might not be too happy. Colonel Protheroe had married again some five years previously. The second Mrs. Protheroe was a remarkably handsome woman in a rather unusual style. I had always guessed that the relations between her and her stepdaughter were not too happy.

I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate, Hawes. He wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I told him that the Colonel had deplored his âRomish tendenciesâ but that the real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the same time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he must conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.

I felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better. These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am sure, very unChristian.

With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half past four, and I made my way to the drawing room.

Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.

I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing mannerâMiss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.

âWe were just talking,â said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, âabout Dr. Stone and Miss Cram.â

A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.

âMiss Cram doesnât give a damn.â

I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:

âNo nice girl would do it,â and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.

âDo what?â I inquired.

âBe a secretary to an unmarried man,â said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.

âOh! my dear,â said Miss Marple. âI think married ones are the worst. Remember poor Mollie Carter.â

âMarried men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,â said Miss Wetherby.

âAnd even some of the ones living with their wives,â murmured Miss Marple. âI rememberâ¦.â

I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.

âBut surely,â I said, âin these days a girl can take a post in just the same way as a man does.â

âTo come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?â said Mrs. Price Ridley in a severe voice.

Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice:

âAnd all the bedrooms on the same floorâ¦.â

Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:

âThe poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. Heâs as innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that.â

Curious what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present would have dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in the cradle, visible to all.

âDisgusting, I call it,â continued Miss Hartnell, with her usual tactlessness. âThe man must be at least twenty-five years older than she is.â

Three female voices rose at once making disconnected remarks about the Choir Boysâ Outing, the regrettable incident at the last Motherâs Meeting, and the draughts in the church. Miss Marple twinkled at Griselda.

âDonât you think,â said my wife, âthat Miss Cram may just like having an interesting job? And that she considers Dr. Stone just as an employer?â

There was a silence. Evidently none of the four ladies agreed. Miss Marple broke the silence by patting Griselda on the arm.

âMy dear,â she said, âyou are very young. The young have such innocent minds.â

Griselda said indignantly that she hadnât got at all an innocent mind.

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple, unheeding of the protest, âyou think the best of everyone.â

âDo you really think she wants to marry that baldheaded dull man?â

âI understand he is quite well off,â said Miss Marple. âRather a violent temper, Iâm afraid. He had quite a serious quarrel with Colonel Protheroe the other day.â

Everyone leaned forward interestingly.

âColonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus.â

âHow like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

âVery like Colonel Protheroe, but I donât know about it being absurd,â said Miss Marple. âYou remember the woman who came down here and said she represented Welfare, and after taking subscriptions she was never heard of again and proved to having nothing whatever to do with Welfare. One is so inclined to be trusting and take people at their own valuation.â

I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.

âThereâs been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasnât there?â asked Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple nodded.

âColonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was painting Lettice in her bathing dress.â

âI always thought there was something between them,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âThat young fellow is always mouching off up there. Pity the girl hasnât got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing.â

âI dare say Mrs. Protheroe does her best,â said Miss Hartnell.

âGirls are so sly,â deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.

âQuite a romance, isnât it?â said the softerhearted Miss Wetherby. âHeâs a very good-looking young fellow.â

âBut loose,â said Miss Hartnell. âBound to be. An artist! Paris! Models! The Altogether!â

âPainting her in her bathing dress,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âNot quite nice.â

âHeâs painting me too,â said Griselda.

âBut not in your bathing dress, dear,â said Miss Marple.

âIt might be worse,â said Griselda solemnly.

âNaughty girl,â said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broad-mindedly. Everybody else looked slightly shocked.

âDid dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?â asked Miss Marple of me.

âTell me?â

âYes. I saw her pass through the garden and go round to the study window.â

Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke screen, and the habit of observing birds through powerful glasses can always be turned to account.

âShe mentioned it, yes,â I admitted.

âMr. Hawes looked worried,â said Miss Marple. âI hope he hasnât been working too hard.â

âOh!â cried Miss Wetherby excitedly. âI quite forgot. I knew I had some news for you. I saw Dr. Haydock coming out of Mrs. Lestrangeâs cottage.â

Everyone looked at each other.

âPerhaps sheâs ill,â suggested Mrs. Price Ridley.

âIt must have been very sudden, if so,â said Miss Hartnell. âFor I saw her walking round her garden at three oâclock this afternoon, and she seemed in perfect health.â

âShe and Dr. Haydock must be old acquaintances,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âHeâs been very quiet about it.â

âItâs curious,â said Miss Wetherby, âthat heâs never mentioned it.â

âAs a matter of factââ said Griselda in a low, mysterious voice, and stopped. Everyone leaned forward excitedly.

âI happen to know,â said Griselda impressively. âHer husband was a missionary. Terrible story. He was eaten, you know. Actually eaten. And she was forced to become the chiefâs head wife. Dr. Haydock was with an expedition and rescued her.â

For a moment excitement was rife, then Miss Marple said reproachfully, but with a smile: âNaughty girl!â

She tapped Griselda reprovingly on the arm.

âVery unwise thing to do, my dear. If you make up these things, people are quite likely to believe them. And sometimes that leads to complications.â

A distinct frost had come over the assembly. Two of the ladies rose to take their departure.

âI wonder if there is anything between young Lawrence Redding and Lettice Protheroe,â said Miss Wetherby. âIt certainly looks like it. What do you think, Miss Marple?â

Miss Marple seemed thoughtful.

âI shouldnât have said so myself. Not Lettice. Quite another person I should have said.â

âBut Colonel Protheroe must have thoughtâ¦.â

âHe has always struck me as rather a stupid man,â said Miss Marple. âThe kind of man who gets the wrong idea into his head and is obstinate about it. Do you remember Joe Bucknell who used to keep the Blue Boar? Such a to-do about his daughter carrying on with young Bailey. And all the time it was that minx of a wife of his.â

She was looking full at Griselda as she spoke, and I suddenly felt a wild surge of anger.

âDonât you think, Miss Marple,â I said, âthat weâre all inclined to let our tongues run away with us too much. Charity thinketh no evil, you know. Inestimable harm may be done by foolish wagging of tongues in ill-natured gossip.â

âDear Vicar,â said Miss Marple, âYou are so unworldly. Iâm afraid that observing human nature for as long as I have done, one gets not to expect very much from it. I dare say the idle tittle-tattle is very wrong and unkind, but it is so often true, isnât it?â

That last Parthian shot went home.

Three

âNasty old cat,â said Griselda, as soon as the door was closed.

She made a face in the direction of the departing visitors and then looked at me and laughed.

âLen, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?â

âMy dear, of course not.â

âBut you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Likeâlike an angry tiger.â

A momentary uneasiness assailed me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in the position of being described as an angry tiger.

âI felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,â I said. âBut Griselda, I wish you would be a little more careful in what you say.â

âDo you mean the cannibal story?â she asked. âOr the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude! If they only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collarâthe sort of thing that you could go quite purely to see the Pope inânot a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, itâs all marvellously pure. Lawrence never even attempts to make love to meâI canât think why.â

âSurely knowing that youâre a married womanââ

âDonât pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderly husband is a kind of gift from heaven to a young man. There must be some other reasonâitâs not that Iâm unattractiveâIâm not.â

âSurely you donât want him to make love to you?â

âN-n-o,â said Griselda, with more hesitation than I thought becoming.

âIf heâs in love with Lettice Protheroeââ

âMiss Marple didnât seem to think he was.â

âMiss Marple may be mistaken.â

âShe never is. That kind of old cat is always right.â She paused a minute and then said, with a quick sidelong glance at me: âYou do believe me, donât you? I mean, that thereâs nothing between Lawrence and me.â

âMy dear Griselda,â I said, surprised. âOf course.â

My wife came across and kissed me.

âI wish you werenât so terribly easy to deceive, Len. Youâd believe me whatever I said.â

âI should hope so. But, my dear, I do beg of you to guard your tongue and be careful of what you say. These women are singularly deficient in humour, remember, and take everything seriously.â

âWhat they need,â said Griselda, âis a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldnât be so busy looking for it in other peopleâs.â

And on this she left the room, and glancing at my watch I hurried out to pay some visits that ought to have been made earlier in the day.

The Wednesday evening service was sparsely attended as usual, but when I came out through the church, after disrobing in the vestry, it was empty save for a woman who stood staring up at one of our windows. We have some rather fine old stained glass, and indeed the church itself is well worth looking at. She turned at my footsteps, and I saw that it was Mrs. Lestrange.

We both hesitated a moment, and then I said:

âI hope you like our little church.â

âIâve been admiring the screen,â she said.

Her voice was pleasant, low, yet very distinct, with a clearcut enunciation. She added:

âIâm so sorry to have missed your wife yesterday.â

We talked a few minutes longer about the church. She was evidently a cultured woman who knew something of Church history and architecture. We left the building together and walked down the road, since one way to the Vicarage led past her house. As we arrived at the gate, she said pleasantly:

âCome in, wonât you? And tell me what you think of what I have done.â

I accepted the invitation. Little Gates had formerly belonged to an Anglo-Indian colonel, and I could not help feeling relieved by the disappearance of the brass tables and Burmese idols. It was furnished now very simply, but in exquisite taste. There was a sense of harmony and rest about it.

Yet I wondered more and more what had brought such a woman as Mrs. Lestrange to St. Mary Mead. She was so very clearly a woman of the world that it seemed a strange taste to bury herself in a country village.

In the clear light of her drawing room I had an opportunity of observing her closely for the first time.

She was a very tall woman. Her hair was gold with a tinge of red in it. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, whether by art or by nature I could not decide. If she was, as I thought, made up, it was done very artistically. There was something Sphinxlike about her face when it was in repose and she had the most curious eyes I have ever seenâthey were almost golden in shade.

Her clothes were perfect and she had all the ease of manner of a well-bred woman, and yet there was something about her that was incongruous and baffling. You felt that she was a mystery. The word Griselda had used occurred to meâsinister. Absurd, of course, and yetâwas it so absurd? The thought sprang unbidden into my mind: âThis woman would stick at nothing.â

Our talk was on most normal linesâpictures, books, old churches. Yet somehow I got very strongly the impression that there was something elseâsomething of quite a different nature that Mrs. Lestrange wanted to say to me.

I caught her eye on me once or twice, looking at me with a curious hesitancy, as though she were unable to make up her mind. She kept the talk, I noticed, strictly to impersonal subjects. She made no mention of a husband or relations.

But all the time there was that strange urgent appeal in her glance. It seemed to say: âShall I tell you? I want to. Canât you help me?â

Yet in the end it died awayâor perhaps it had all been my fancy. I had the feeling that I was being dismissed. I rose and took my leave. As I went out of the room, I glanced back and saw her staring after me with a puzzled, doubtful expression. On an impulse I came back:

âIf there is anything I can doââ

She said doubtfully: âItâs very kind of youââ

We were both silent. Then she said:

âI wish I knew. Itâs difficult. No, I donât think anyone can help me. But thank you for offering to do so.â

That seemed final, so I went. But as I did so, I wondered. We are not used to mysteries in St. Mary Mead.

So much is this the case that as I emerged from the gate I was pounced upon. Miss Hartnell is very good at pouncing in a heavy and cumbrous way.

âI saw you!â she exclaimed with ponderous humour. âAnd I was so excited. Now you can tell us all about it.â

âAbout what?â

âThe mysterious lady! Is she a widow or has she a husband somewhere?â

âI really couldnât say. She didnât tell me.â

âHow very peculiar. One would think she would be certain to mention something casually. It almost looks, doesnât it, as though she had a reason for not speaking?â

âI really donât see that.â

âAh! But as dear Miss Marple says, you are so unworldly, dear Vicar. Tell me, has she known Dr. Haydock long?â

âShe didnât mention him, so I donât know.â

âReally? But what did you talk about then?â

âPictures, music, books,â I said truthfully.

Miss Hartnell, whose only topics of conversation are the purely personal, looked suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, I bade her good night and walked rapidly away.

I called in at a house farther down the village and returned to the Vicarage by the garden gate, passing, as I did so, the danger point of Miss Marpleâs garden. However, I did not see how it was humanly possible for the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrange to have yet reached her ears, so I felt reasonably safe.

As I latched the gate, it occurred to me that I would just step down to the shed in the garden which young Lawrence Redding was using as a studio, and see for myself how Griseldaâs portrait was progressing.

I append a rough sketch here which will be useful in the light of after happenings, only sketching in such details as are necessary.

I had no idea there was anyone in the studio. There had been no voices from within to warn me, and I suppose that my own footsteps made no noise upon the grass.

I opened the door and then stopped awkwardly on the threshold. For there were two people in the studio, and the manâs arms were round the woman and he was kissing her passionately.

The two people were the artist, Lawrence Redding, and Mrs. Protheroe.

I backed out precipitately and beat a retreat to my study. There I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought things over. The discovery had come as a great shock to me. Especially since my conversation with Lettice that afternoon, I had felt fairly certain that there was some kind of understanding growing up between her and the young man. Moreover, I was convinced that she herself thought so. I felt positive that she had no idea of the artistâs feelings for her stepmother.

A nasty tangle. I paid a grudging tribute to Miss Marple. She had not been deceived but had evidently suspected the true state of things with a fair amount of accuracy. I had entirely misread her meaning glance at Griselda.

I had never dreamt of considering Mrs. Protheroe in the matter. There has always been rather a suggestion of Caesarâs wife about Mrs. Protheroeâa quiet, self-contained woman whom one would not suspect of any great depths of feeling.

I had got to this point in my meditations when a tap on my study window aroused me. I got up and went to it. Mrs. Protheroe was standing outside. I opened the window and she came in, not waiting for an invitation on my part. She crossed the room in a breathless sort of way and dropped down on the sofa.

I had the feeling that I had never really seen her before. The quiet self-contained woman that I knew had vanished. In her place was a quick-breathing, desperate creature. For the first time I realized that Anne Protheroe was beautiful.

She was a brown-haired woman with a pale face and very deep set grey eyes. She was flushed now and her breast heaved. It was as though a statue had suddenly come to life. I blinked my eyes at the transformation.

âI thought it best to come,â she said. âYouâyou saw just now?â I bowed my head.

She said very quietly: âWe love each otherâ¦.â

And even in the middle of her evident distress and agitation she could not keep a little smile from her lips. The smile of a woman who sees something very beautiful and wonderful.

I still said nothing, and she added presently:

âI suppose to you that seems very wrong?â

âCan you expect me to say anything else, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âNoâno, I suppose not.â

I went on, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible:

âYou are a married womanââ

She interrupted me.

âOh! I knowâI know. Do you think I havenât gone over all that again and again? Iâm not a bad woman reallyâIâm not. And things arenâtâarenâtâas you might think they are.â

I said gravely: âIâm glad of that.â

She asked rather timorously:

âAre you going to tell my husband?â

I said rather dryly:

âThere seems to be a general idea that a clergyman is incapable of behaving like a gentleman. That is not true.â

She threw me a grateful glance.

âIâm so unhappy. Oh! Iâm so dreadfully unhappy. I canât go on. I simply canât go on. And I donât know what to do.â Her voice rose with a slightly hysterical note in it. âYou donât know what my life is like. Iâve been miserable with Lucius from the beginning. No woman could be happy with him. I wish he were dead â¦ Itâs awful, but I do â¦ Iâm desperate. I tell you, Iâm desperate.â She started and looked over at the window.

âWhat was that? I thought I heard someone? Perhaps itâs Lawrence.â

I went over to the window which I had not closed as I had thought. I stepped out and looked down the garden, but there was no one in sight. Yet I was almost convinced that I, too, had heard someone. Or perhaps it was her certainty that had convinced me.

When I reentered the room she was leaning forward, drooping her head down. She looked the picture of despair. She said again:

âI donât know what to do. I donât know what to do.â

I came and sat down beside her. I said the things I thought it was my duty to say, and tried to say them with the necessary conviction, uneasily conscious all the time that that same morning I had given voice to the sentiment that a world without Colonel Protheroe in it would be improved for the better.

Above all, I begged her to do nothing rash. To leave her home and her husband was a very serious step.

I donât suppose I convinced her. I have lived long enough in the world to know that arguing with anyone in love is next door to useless, but I do think my words brought to her some measure of comfort.

When she rose to go, she thanked me, and promised to think over what I had said.

Nevertheless, when she had gone, I felt very uneasy. I felt that hitherto I had misjudged Anne Protheroeâs character. She impressed me now as a very desperate woman, the kind of woman who would stick at nothing once her emotions were aroused. And she was desperately, wildly, madly in love with Lawrence Redding, a man several years younger than herself. I didnât like it.

Four

I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.

âI hope everything will be all right,â Griselda called up the stairs after me. âIâve thought over what you said at lunch, and Iâve really thought of some quite good things to eat.â

I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griseldaâs assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she didnât. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters which Griselda had ordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence, we were, unfortunately, not able to sample as we had nothing in the house to open them withâan omission which was discovered only when the moment for eating them arrived.

I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.

However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.

Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all, oneâs idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.

It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I donât think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.

Griselda and Dennis were particularly gayâfull of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cramâthe Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griseldaâs age than I am. He calls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.

I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. Iâm not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.

Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadnât the heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere presence of a clergyman should have a dampening effect.

Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he manoeuvred to get me into the study.

As soon as we were alone his manner changed.

âYouâve surprised our secret, sir,â he said. âWhat are you going to do about it?â

I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.

âOf course,â he said, when I had finished, âyouâre bound to say all this. Youâre a parson. I donât mean that in any way offensively. As a matter of fact I think youâre probably right. But this isnât the usual sort of thing between Anne and me.â

I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.

âYou mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe.â

He assured me that so farââthere was nothing wrong in it.â Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What was going to happen he didnât know.

âIf this were only a book,â he said gloomily, âthe old man would dieâand a good riddance to everybody.â

I reproved him.

âOh! I didnât mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though Iâd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. Thereâs not a soul in the world whoâs got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didnât do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You donât know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world Iâd take her away without any more ado.â

Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroeâs earsâand things would be made infinitely worse for her.

Lawrence protested.

âNobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.â

âMy dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.â

He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.

âHas it occurred to you,â I asked, âthat possibly Lettice might think so herself?â

He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didnât care a hang about him. He was sure of that.

âSheâs a queer sort of girl,â he said. âAlways seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe sheâs really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what sheâs doing. And thereâs a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anneâs been a perfect angel to her always.â

I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her step-daughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Letticeâs tone.

We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.

âOh dear!â said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair. âHow I would like a thrill of some kind. A murderâor even a burglary.â

âI donât suppose thereâs anyone much worth burgling,â said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. âUnless we stole Miss Hartnellâs false teeth.â

âThey do click horribly,â said Griselda. âBut youâre wrong about there being no one worthwhile. Thereâs some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II Tazzaâall kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe.â

âThe old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,â said Dennis. âJust the sort of thing heâd enjoy doing.â

âOh, weâd get in first and hold him up!â said Griselda. âWhoâs got a revolver?â

âIâve got a Mauser pistol,â said Lawrence.

âHave you? How exciting. Why do you have it?â

âSouvenir of the war,â said Lawrence briefly.

âOld Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,â volunteered Dennis. âOld Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.â

âI thought theyâd quarrelled about the barrow,â said Griselda.

âOh, theyâve made that up!â said Dennis. âI canât think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.â

âThe man Stone puzzles me,â said Lawrence. âI think he must be very absentminded. Youâd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject.â

âThatâs love,â said Dennis. âSweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floorââ

âThatâs enough, Dennis,â I said.

âWell,â said Lawrence Redding, âI must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening.â

Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.

Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.

âSorry,â said Dennis.

He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

âWhat an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!â

I was a little surprised. âWhatâs the matter?â I asked.

âI donât know whether I ought to tell you.â

I was more and more surprised.

âItâs such an absolutely rotten thing,â Dennis said again. âGoing round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, Iâm damnedâsorryâif Iâll tell you! Itâs too absolutely rotten.â

I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

Griselda came in at that moment.

âMiss Wetherbyâs just rung up,â she said. âMrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasnât come in yet. Nobody knows where sheâs gone.â

âWhy should they know?â

âBut it isnât to Dr. Haydockâs. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.â

âIt is a mystery to me,â I said, âhow anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.â

âAnd thatâs not all,â said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. âTheyâve found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUTââshe waved an impressive forefingerââno communicating door!â

âThat,â I said, âmust be very disappointing to everybody.â

At which Griselda laughed.

Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.

Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

Then our organist, who is distinctly âtouchy,â had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.

And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.

I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.

âFirmness,â he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. âThatâs whatâs needed nowadaysâfirmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. Iâll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! Weâre too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. Youâre always being asked to consider a manâs wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? Itâs all the same to meâno matter what a man isâdoctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrelâif you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, Iâm sure.â

âYou forget,â I said. âMy calling obliges me to respect one quality above all othersâthe quality of mercy.â

âWell, Iâm a just man. No one can deny that.â

I did not speak, and he said sharply:

âWhy donât you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.â

I hesitated, then I decided to speak.

âI was thinking,â I said, âthat when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to meâ¦.â

âPah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. Iâve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. Iâll be along this evening, as I said. Weâll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you donât mind. Iâve got to see a man in the village.â

âThat will suit me quite well.â

He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.

I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.

I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.

I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.

I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.

He turned abruptly at my entrance.

âLook here, sir. Iâve been thinking over what you said yesterday. Iâve had a sleepless night thinking about it. Youâre right. Iâve got to cut and run.â

âMy dear boy,â I said.

âYou were right in what you said about Anne. Iâll only bring trouble on her by staying here. Sheâsâsheâs too good for anything else. I see Iâve got to go. Iâve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.â

âI think you have made the only decision possible,â I said. âI know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.â

I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didnât know what he was talking about.

âYouâll look after Anne? She needs a friend.â

âYou can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.â

âThank you, sir.â He wrung my hand. âYouâre a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. Iâm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clementâs portrait.â

âDonât worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you.â

When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.

I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.

I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.

I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six thirty or soon after.

Five

It was nearer seven than half past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.

I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.

âHallo,â I said, âhave you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. Iâve got to see Protheroe about some accountsâbut I dare say we shanât be long.â

âProtheroe,â he said. He began to laugh. âProtheroe? Youâre going to see Protheroe? Oh, youâll see Protheroe all right! Oh, my Godâyes!â

I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.

âNo,â he almost cried out. âIâve got to get awayâto think. Iâve got to think. I must think.â

He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.

Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.

âSo youâre back at last,â she observed.

âIs Colonel Protheroe here?â I asked.

âIn the study. Been here since a quarter past six.â

âAnd Mr. Reddingâs been here?â

âCome a few minutes ago. Asked for you. I told him youâd be back at any minute and that Colonel Protheroe was waiting in the study, and he said heâd wait too, and went there. Heâs there now.â

âNo, he isnât,â I said. âIâve just met him going down the road.â

âWell, I didnât hear him leave. He canât have stayed more than a couple of minutes. The mistress isnât back from town yet.â

I nodded absentmindedly. Mary beat a retreat to the kitchen quarters and I went down the passage and opened the study door.

After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead.

For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me.

Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip.

I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was deadâshot through the head.

I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.

Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctorâs coming.

Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.

His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.

âWell?â I asked.

âHeâs dead right enoughâbeen dead half an hour, I should say.â

âSuicide?â

âOut of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, whereâs the weapon?â

True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.

âWeâd better not mess around with anything,â said Haydock. âIâd better ring up the police.â

He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.

âThis is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?â

I explained. âIsâis it murder?â I asked rather faintly.

âLooks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasnât popular, but one isnât often murdered for that reasonâworse luck.â

âThereâs one rather curious thing,â I said. âI was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there everyone was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.â

Haydock drew his brows together.

âThatâs suggestiveâvery. You were being got out of the way. Whereâs your wife?â

âGone up to London for the day.â

âAnd the maid?â

âIn the kitchenâright at the other side of the house.â

âWhere she wouldnât be likely to hear anything that went on in here. Itâs a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?â

âHe referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.â

âMeaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of anyone who had a grudge against him?â

The thought of Lawrence Reddingâs white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.

âThe police,â said my friend, and rose to his feet.

Our police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.

âGood evening, gentlemen,â he greeted us. âthe Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime Iâll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroeâs been found shotâin the Vicarage.â

He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.

He moved over to the writing table and announced:

âNothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.â

For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.

He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.

I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.

âIn your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?â

âShot through the head at close quarters.â

âAnd the weapon?â

âI canât say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibreâsay a Mauser .25.â

I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Reddingâs admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.

âDid you speak, sir?â

I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.

âWhen, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?â

The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:

âThe man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.â

Hurst turned to me. âDid the girl hear anything?â

âAs far as I know she heard nothing,â I said. âBut you had better ask her.â

But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.

All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.

He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinateâs notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.

âEverythingâs been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,â he said.

âIâve touched nothing,â said Haydock.

âNo more have I,â I said.

The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.

âAh!â he said in a tone of triumph. âHereâs what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. Thatâll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?â

âI said about half an hour, butââ

The Inspector consulted his watch.

âFive minutes past seven. I got word about ten minutes ago, at five minutes to seven. Discovery of the body was at about a quarter to seven. I understand you were fetched immediately. Say you examined it at ten minutes toâWhy, that brings it to the identical second almost!â

âI donât guarantee the time absolutely,â said Haydock. âThat is an approximate estimate.â

âGood enough, sir, good enough.â

I had been trying to get a word in.

âAbout the clockââ

âIf youâll excuse me, sir, Iâll ask you any questions I want to know. Timeâs short. What I want is absolute silence.â

âYes, but Iâd like to tell youââ

âAbsolute silence,â said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.

He was still peering about the writing table.

âWhat was he sitting here for?â he grunted. âDid he want to write a noteâHalloâwhatâs this?â

He held up a piece of notepaper triumphantly. So pleased was he with his find that he permitted us to come to his side and examine it with him.

It was a piece of Vicarage notepaper, and it was headed at the top 6:20.

âDear Clementââit beganââSorry I cannot wait any longer, but I mustâ¦.â

Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.

âPlain as a pikestaff,â said Inspector Slack triumphantly. âHe sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?â

âIâd just like to sayââ I began.

âOut of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.â

He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.

âI think you ought to knowââ I said obstinately.

The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.

âWeâll go into all that later. Iâd be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.â

We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.

Hours seemed to have passedâyet it was only a quarter past seven.

âWell,â said Haydock. âThatâs that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.â

âThe mistress is back,â said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. âCome in about five minutes ago.â

I found Griselda in the drawing room. She looked frightened, but excited.

I told her everything and she listened attentively.

âThe letter is headed 6:20,â I ended. âAnd the clock fell over and has stopped at 6:22.â

âYes,â said Griselda. âBut that clock, didnât you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?â

âNo,â I said. âI didnât. He wouldnât let me. I tried my best.â Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.

âBut, Len,â she said, âthat makes the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Because when that clock said twenty past six it was really only five minutes past, and at five minutes past I donât suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.â

Six

We puzzled over the business of the clock for some time, but we could make nothing of it. Griselda said I ought to make another effort to tell Inspector Slack about it, but on that point I was feeling what I can only describe as âmulish.â

Inspector Slack had been abominably and most unnecessarily rude. I was looking forward to a moment when I could produce my valuable contribution and effect his discomfiture. I would then say in a tone of mild reproach:

âIf you had only listened to me, Inspector Slackâ¦.â

I expected that he would at least speak to me before he left the house, but to our surprise we learned from Mary that he had departed, having locked up the study door and issued orders that no one was to attempt to enter the room.

Griselda suggested going up to Old Hall.

âIt will be so awful for Anne Protheroeâwith the police and everything,â she said. âPerhaps I might be able to do something for her.â

I cordially approved of this plan, and Griselda set off with instructions that she was to telephone to me if she thought that I could be of any use or comfort to either of the ladies.

I now proceeded to ring up the Sunday School teachers, who were coming at 7:45 for their weekly preparation class. I thought that under the circumstances it would be better to put them off.

Dennis was the next person to arrive on the scene, having just returned from a tennis party. The fact that murder had taken place at the Vicarage seemed to afford him acute satisfaction.

âFancy being right on the spot in a murder case,â he exclaimed. âIâve always wanted to be right in the midst of one. Why have the police locked up the study? Wouldnât one of the other door keys fit it?â

I refused to allow anything of the sort to be attempted. Dennis gave in with a bad grace. After extracting every possible detail from me he went out into the garden to look for footprints, remarking cheerfully that it was lucky it was only old Protheroe, whom everyone disliked.

His cheerful callousness rather grated on me, but I reflected that I was perhaps being hard on the boy. At Dennisâs age a detective story is one of the best things in life, and to find a real detective story, complete with corpse, waiting on oneâs own front doorstep, so to speak, is bound to send a healthy-minded boy into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. Death means very little to a boy of sixteen.

Griselda came back in about an hourâs time. She had seen Anne Protheroe, having arrived just after the Inspector had broken the news to her.

On hearing that Mrs. Protheroe had last seen her husband in the village about a quarter to six, and that she had no light of any kind to throw upon the matter, he had taken his departure, explaining that he would return on the morrow for a fuller interview.

âHe was quite decent in his way,â said Griselda grudgingly.

âHow did Mrs. Protheroe take it?â I asked.

âWellâshe was very quietâbut then she always is.â

âYes,â I said. âI canât imagine Anne Protheroe going into hysterics.â

âOf course it was a great shock. You could see that. She thanked me for coming and said she was very grateful but that there was nothing I could do.â

âWhat about Lettice?â

âShe was out playing tennis somewhere. She hadnât got home yet.â There was a pause, and then Griselda said:

âYou know, Len, she was really very quietâvery queer indeed.â

âThe shock,â I suggested.

âYesâI suppose so. And yetââ Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. âIt wasnât like that, somehow. She didnât seem so much bowled over asâwellâterrified.â

âTerrified?â

âYesânot showing it, you know. At least not meaning to show it. But a queer, watchful look in her eyes. I wonder if she has a sort of idea who did kill him. She asked again and again if anyone were suspected.â

âDid she?â I said thoughtfully.

âYes. Of course Anneâs got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasnât as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything.â

âDeath alters oneâs feelings sometimes,â I said.

âYes, I suppose so.â

Dennis came in and was full of excitement over a footprint he had found in one of the flower beds. He was sure that the police had overlooked it and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery.

I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to âstudy the latest developments,â as he said.

Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morningâs sensational bit of news.

We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony.

âWould you believe it? The bakerâs just told me. Theyâve arrested young Mr. Redding.â

âArrested Lawrence,â cried Griselda incredulously. âImpossible. It must be some stupid mistake.â

âNo mistake about it, mum,â said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. âMr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and âI did it,â he says. Just like that.â

She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other.

âOh! It isnât true,â said Griselda. âIt canât be true.â

She noticed my silence, and said: âLen, you donât think itâs true?â

I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.

âHe must be mad,â said Griselda. âAbsolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?â

âThat doesnât sound at all a likely thing to happen.â

âBut it must have been an accident of some kind. Because thereâs not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?â

I could have answered that question very decidedly, but I wished to spare Anne Protheroe as far as possible. There might still be a chance of keeping her name out of it.

âRemember they had had a quarrel,â I said.

âAbout Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but thatâs absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretlyâwell, thatâs not a reason for killing her father.â

âWe donât know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda.â

âYou do believe it, Len! Oh! How can you! I tell you, Iâm sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head.â

âRemember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman.â

âYes, butâoh! Itâs impossible.â

âThereâs the clock, too,â I said. âThis explains the clock. Lawrence must have put it back to 6:20 with the idea of making an alibi for himself. Look how Inspector Slack fell into the trap.â

âYouâre wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. âKeeping the Vicar up to time!â he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6:22. Heâd have put the hands somewhere possibleâlike a quarter to seven.â

âHe maynât have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast.â

Griselda disagreed.

âNo, if you were committing a murder, youâd be awfully careful about things like that.â

âYou donât know, my dear,â I said mildly. âYouâve never done one.â

Before Griselda could reply, a shadow fell across the breakfast table, and a very gentle voice said:

âI hope I am not intruding. You must forgive me. But in the sad circumstancesâthe very sad circumstancesâ¦.â

It was our neighbour, Miss Marple. Accepting our polite disclaimers, she stepped in through the window, and I drew up a chair for her. She looked faintly flushed and quite excited.

âVery terrible, is it not? Poor Colonel Protheroe. Not a very pleasant man, perhaps, and not exactly popular, but itâs none the less sad for that. And actually shot in the Vicarage study, I understand?â

I said that that had indeed been the case.

âBut the dear Vicar was not here at the time?â Miss Marple questioned of Griselda. I explained where I had been.

âMr. Dennis is not with you this morning?â said Miss Marple, glancing round.

âDennis,â said Griselda, âfancies himself as an amateur detective. He is very excited about a footprint he found in one of the flower beds, and I fancy has gone off to tell the police about it.â

âDear, dear,â said Miss Marple. âSuch a to-do, is it not? And Mr. Dennis thinks he knows who committed the crime. Well, I suppose we all think we know.â

âYou mean it is obvious?â said Griselda.

âNo, dear, I didnât mean that at all. I dare say everyone thinks it is somebody different. That is why it is so important to have proofs. I, for instance, am quite convinced I know who did it. But I must admit I havenât one shadow of proof. One must, I know, be very careful of what one says at a time like thisâcriminal libel, donât they call it? I had made up my mind to be most careful with Inspector Slack. He sent word he would come and see me this morning, but now he has just phoned up to say it wonât be necessary after all.â

âI suppose, since the arrest, it isnât necessary,â I said.

âThe arrest?â Miss Marple leaned forward, her cheeks pink with excitement. âI didnât know there had been an arrest.â

It is so seldom that Miss Marple is worse informed than we are that I had taken it for granted that she would know the latest developments.

âIt seems we have been talking at cross purposes,â I said. âYes, there has been an arrestâLawrence Redding.â

âLawrence Redding?â Miss Marple seemed very surprised. âNow I should not have thoughtââ

Griselda interrupted vehemently.

âI canât believe it even now. No, not though he has actually confessed.â

âConfessed?â said Miss Marple. âYou say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at seaâyes, sadly at sea.â

âI canât help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,â said Griselda. âDonât you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.â

Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.

âHe gave himself up, you say?â

âYes.â

âOh!â said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. âI am so gladâso very glad.â

I looked at her in some surprise.

âIt shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,â I said.

âRemorse?â Miss Marple looked very surprised. âOh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you donât think that he is guilty?â

It was my turn to stare.

âBut since he has confessedââ

âYes, but that just proves it, doesnât it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.â

âNo,â I said. âI may be dense, but I canât see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have.â

âOh, of course, thereâs a reason!â said Miss Marple. âNaturally. Thereâs always a reason, isnât there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.â

She turned to Griselda.

âDonât you agree with me, my dear?â

âIâI donât know,â said Griselda. âItâs difficult to know what to think. I canât see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.â

âIf you had seen his face last nightââ I began.

âTell me,â said Miss Marple.

I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.

When I had finished she said:

âI know that I am very often rather foolish and donât take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.

âIt seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creatureâs life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a little flurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself.â

âWe donât know the circumstances,â I argued. âIf there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that this is what did actually occur.â

âI know, dear Mr. Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr. Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the Colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letterâat least that is what my maid told me.â

âQuite true,â said Griselda. âHe seems to have been writing a note to say he couldnât wait any longer. The note was dated 6:20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6:22, and thatâs just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.â

She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.

âVery curious,â said Miss Marple. âVery curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I meanââ

She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring âMorning.â

She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:

âTheyâve arrested Lawrence, I hear.â

âYes,â said Griselda. âItâs been a great shock to us.â

âI never really thought anyone would murder father,â said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. âLots of people wanted to, Iâm sure. There are times when Iâd have liked to do it myself.â

âWonât you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?â asked Griselda.

âNo, thank you. I just drifted round to see if youâd got my beret hereâa queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day.â

âIf you did, itâs there still,â said Griselda. âMary never tidies anything.â

âIâll go and see,â said Lettice, rising. âSorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line.â

âIâm afraid you canât get it now,â I said. âInspector Slack has locked the room up.â

âOh, what a bore! Canât we get in through the window?â

âIâm afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret wonât be much good to you at present?â

âYou mean mourning and all that? I shanât bother about mourning. I think itâs an awfully archaic idea. Itâs a nuisance about Lawrenceâyes, itâs a nuisance.â

She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.

âI suppose itâs all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thingâ¦.â

Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.

A curious smile came to Letticeâs lips.

âI think,â she said softly, âIâll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested.â

She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple. âWhy did you step on my foot?â

The old lady was smiling.

âI thought you were going to say something, my dear. And it is often so much better to let things develop on their own lines. I donât think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. Sheâs got a very definite idea in her head and sheâs acting upon it.â

Mary gave a loud knock on the dining room door and entered hard upon it.

âWhat is it?â said Griselda. âAnd Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. Iâve told you about it before.â

âThought you might be busy,â said Mary. âColonel Melchettâs here. Wants to see the master.â

Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.

âI thought you wouldnât like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing room,â went on Mary. âShall I clear?â

âNot yet,â said Griselda. âIâll ring.â

She turned to Miss Marple and I left the room.

Seven

Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpected. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.

âGood morning, Vicar,â he said. âNasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didnât. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasnât upset your missus?â

I said Griselda had taken it very well.

âThatâs lucky. Rotten thing to happen in oneâs house. I must say Iâm surprised at young Reddingâdoing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for anyoneâs feelings.â

A wild desire to laugh came over me, but Colonel Melchett evidently saw nothing odd in the idea of a murderer being considerate, so I held my peace.

âI must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up,â continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.

âHow did it happen exactly?â

âLast night. About ten oâclock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol, and says: âHere I am. I did it.â Just like that.â

âWhat account does he give of the business?â

âPrecious little. He was warned, of course, about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see youâfound Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Wonât say what the quarrel was about. Look here, Clementâjust between you and me, do you know anything about it? Iâve heard rumoursâabout his being forbidden the house and all that. What was itâdid he seduce the daughter, or what? We donât want to bring the girl into it more than we can help for everybodyâs sake. Was that the trouble?â

âNo,â I said. âYou can take it from me that it was something quite different, but I canât say more at the present juncture.â

He nodded and rose.

âIâm glad to know. Thereâs a lot of talk. Too many women in this part of the world. Well, I must get along. Iâve got to see Haydock. He was called out to some case or other, but he ought to be back by now. I donât mind telling you Iâm sorry about Redding. He always struck me as a decent young chap. Perhaps theyâll think out some kind of defence for him. Aftereffects of war, shell shock, or something. Especially if no very adequate motive turns up. I must be off. Like to come along?â

I said I would like to very much, and we went out together.

Haydockâs house is next door to mine. His servant said the doctor had just come in and showed us into the dining room, where Haydock was sitting down to a steaming plate of eggs and bacon. He greeted me with an amiable nod.

âSorry I had to go out. Confinement case. Iâve been up most of the night, over your business. Iâve got the bullet for you.â

He shoved a little box along the table. Melchett examined it.

âPoint two five?â

Haydock nodded.

âIâll keep the technical details for the inquest,â he said. âAll you want to know is that death was practically instantaneous. Silly young fool, what did he want to do it for? Amazing, by the way, that nobody heard the shot.â

âYes,â said Melchett, âthat surprises me.â

âThe kitchen window gives on the other side of the house,â I said. âWith the study door, the pantry door, and the kitchen door all shut, I doubt if you would hear anything, and there was no one but the maid in the house.â

âHâm,â said Melchett. âItâs odd, all the same. I wonder the old ladyâwhatâs her nameâMarple, didnât hear it. The study window was open.â

âPerhaps she did,â said Haydock.

âI donât think she did,â said I. âShe was over at the Vicarage just now and she didnât mention anything of the kind which Iâm certain she would have done if there had been anything to tell.â

âMay have heard it and paid no attention to itâthought it was a car backfiring.â

It struck me that Haydock was looking much more jovial and good-humoured this morning. He seemed like a man who was decorously trying to subdue unusually good spirits.

âOr what about a silencer?â he added. âThatâs quite likely. Nobody would hear anything then.â

Melchett shook his head.

âSlack didnât find anything of the kind, and he asked Redding, and Redding didnât seem to know what he was talking about at first and then denied point blank using anything of the kind. And I suppose one can take his word for it.â

âYes, indeed, poor devil.â

âDamned young fool,â said Colonel Melchett. âSorry, Clement. But he really is! Somehow one canât get used to thinking of him as a murderer.â

âAny motive?â asked Haydock, taking a final draught of coffee and pushing back his chair.

âHe says they quarrelled and he lost his temper and shot him.â

âHoping for manslaughter, eh?â The doctor shook his head. âThat story doesnât hold water. He stole up behind him as he was writing and shot him through the head. Precious little âquarrelâ about that.â

âAnyway, there wouldnât have been time for a quarrel,â I said, remembering Miss Marpleâs words. âTo creep up, shoot him, alter the clock hands back to 6:20, and leave again would have taken him all his time. I shall never forget his face when I met him outside the gate, or the way he said, âYou want to see Protheroeâoh, youâll see him all right!â That in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes before.â

Haydock stared at me.

âWhat do you meanâwhat had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?â

âA few minutes before I got to the house.â

The doctor shook his head.

âImpossible. Plumb impossible. Heâd been dead much longer than that.â

âBut, my dear man,â cried Colonel Melchett, âyou said yourself that half an hour was only an approximate estimate.â

âHalf an hour, thirty-five minutes, twenty-five minutes, twenty minutesâpossibly, but less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.â

We stared at each other. Haydockâs face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I wondered at the change in him.

âBut, look here, Haydock.â The Colonel found his voice. âIf Redding admits shooting him at a quarter to sevenââ

Haydock sprang to his feet.

âI tell you itâs impossible,â he roared. âIf Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you Iâm a doctor, and I know. The blood had begun to congeal.â

âIf Redding is lying,â began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.

âWeâd better go down to the police station and see him,â he said.

Eight

We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:

âYou know I donât like the look of this. I donât like it. Thereâs something here we donât understand.â

He looked thoroughly worried and upset.

Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face with Lawrence Redding.

He looked pale and strained but quite composedâmarvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.

âLook here, Redding,â he said, âI understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here. You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. Iâm not reading it over to you, but thatâs the gist of it.â

âYes.â

âIâm going to ask a few questions. Youâve already been told that you neednât answer them unless you choose. Your solicitorââ

Lawrence interrupted.

âIâve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.â

âAh! wellââ Melchett snorted. âHow did you happen to have a pistol with you?â

Lawrence hesitated. âIt was in my pocket.â

âYou took it with you to the Vicarage?â

âYes.â

âWhy?â

âI always take it.â

He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.

âWhy did you put the clock back?â

âThe clock?â He seemed puzzled.

âYes, the hands pointed to 6:22.â

A look of fear sprang up in his face.

âOh! thatâyes. IâI altered it.â

Haydock spoke suddenly.

âWhere did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?â

âIn the study at the Vicarage.â

âI mean in what part of the body?â

âOh!âIâthrough the head, I think. Yes, through the head.â

âArenât you sure?â

âSince you know, I canât see why it is necessary to ask me.â

It was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.

âFor the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.â

I tore it open and read:

âPleaseâpleaseâcome to me. I donât know what to do. It is all too awful. I want to tell someone. Please come immediately, and bring anyone you like with you. Anne Protheroe.â

I gave Melchett a meaning glance. He took the hint. We all went out together. Glancing over my shoulder, I had a glimpse of Lawrence Reddingâs face. His eyes were riveted on the paper in my hand, and I have hardly ever seen such a terrible look of anguish and despair in any human beingâs face.

I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying:

âIâm a desperate woman,â and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Reddingâs heroic self-accusation. Melchett was speaking to Slack.

âHave you got any line on Reddingâs movements earlier in the day? Thereâs some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?â

He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroeâs letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.

âIs this what you were hinting at this morning?â

âYes. I was not sure then if it was my duty to speak. I am quite sure now.â And I told him of what I had seen that night in the studio.

The Colonel had a few words with the Inspector and then we set off for Old Hall. Dr. Haydock came with us.

A very correct butler opened the door, with just the right amount of gloom in his bearing.

âGood morning,â said Melchett. âWill you ask Mrs. Protheroeâs maid to tell her we are here and would like to see her, and then return here and answer a few questions.â

The butler hurried away and presently returned with the news that he had despatched the message.

âNow letâs hear something about yesterday,â said Colonel Melchett. âYour master was in to lunch?â

âYes, sir.â

âAnd in his usual spirits?â

âAs far as I could see, yes, sir.â

âWhat happened after that?â

âAfter luncheon Mrs. Protheroe went to lie down and the Colonel went to his study. Miss Lettice went out to a tennis party in the two-seater. Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe had tea at four thirty, in the drawing room. The car was ordered for five-thirty to take them to the village. Immediately after they had left Mr. Clement rang upââhe bowed to meââI told him they had started.â

âHâm,â said Colonel Melchett. âWhen was Mr. Redding last here?â

âOn Tuesday afternoon, sir.â

âI understand that there was a disagreement between them?â

âI believe so, sir. The Colonel gave me orders that Mr. Redding was not to be admitted in future.â

âDid you overhear the quarrel at all?â asked Colonel Melchett bluntly.

âColonel Protheroe, sir, had a very loud voice, especially when it was raised in anger. I was unable to help overhearing a few words here and there.â

âEnough to tell you the cause of the dispute?â

âI understood, sir, that it had to do with a portrait Mr. Redding had been paintingâa portrait of Miss Lettice.â

Melchett grunted.

âDid you see Mr. Redding when he left?â

âYes, sir, I let him out.â

âDid he seem angry?â

âNo, sir; if I may say so, he seemed rather amused.â

âAh! He didnât come to the house yesterday?â

âNo, sir.â

âAnyone else come?â

âNot yesterday, sir.â

âWell, the day before?â

âMr. Dennis Clement came in the afternoon. And Dr. Stone was here for some time. And there was a lady in the evening.â

âA lady?â Melchett was surprised. âWho was she?â

The butler couldnât remember her name. It was a lady he had not seen before. Yes, she had given her name, and when he told her that the family were at dinner, she had said that she would wait. So he had shown her into the little morning room.

She had asked for Colonel Protheroe, not Mrs. Protheroe. He had told the Colonel and the Colonel had gone to the morning room directly dinner was over.

How long had the lady stayed? He thought about half an hour. The Colonel himself had let her out. Ah! Yes, he remembered her name now. The lady had been a Mrs. Lestrange.

This was a surprise.

âCurious,â said Melchett. âReally very curious.â

But we pursued the matter no further, for at that moment a message came that Mrs. Protheroe would see us.

Anne was in bed. Her face was pale and her eyes very bright. There was a look on her face that puzzled meâa kind of grim determination. She spoke to me.

âThank you for coming so promptly,â she said. âI see youâve understood what I meant by bringing anyone you liked with you.â She paused.

âItâs best to get it over quickly, isnât it?â she said. She gave a queer, half-pathetic little smile. âI suppose youâre the person I ought to say it to, Colonel Melchett. You see, it was I who killed my husband.â

Colonel Melchett said gently:

âMy dear Mrs. Protheroeââ

âOh! Itâs quite true. I suppose Iâve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. Iâve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.â

She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

âThatâs all. I suppose youâll arrest me and take me away. Iâll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.â

âAre you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?â

Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.

âI know. Silly boy. Heâs very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of himâbut very silly.â

âHe knew that it was you who had committed the crime?â

âYes.â

âHow did he know?â

She hesitated.

âDid you tell him?â

Still she hesitated. Then at last she seemed to make up her mind.

âYesâI told himâ¦.â

She twitched her shoulders with a movement of irritation.

âCanât you go away now? Iâve told you. I donât want to talk about it anymore.â

âWhere did you get the pistol, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âThe pistol! Oh, it was my husbandâs. I got it out of the drawer of his dressing table.â

âI see. And you took it with you to the Vicarage?â

âYes. I knew he would be thereââ

âWhat time was this?â

âIt must have been after sixâquarterâtwenty pastâsomething like that.â

âYou took the pistol meaning to shoot your husband?â

âNoâIâmeant it for myself.â

âI see. But you went to the Vicarage?â

âYes. I went along to the window. There were no voices. I looked in. I saw my husband. Something came over meâand I fired.â

âAnd then?â

âThen? Oh, then I went away.â

âAnd told Mr. Redding what you had done?â

Again I noticed the hesitation in her voice before she said âYes.â

âDid anybody see you entering or leaving the Vicarage?â

âNoâat least, yes. Old Miss Marple. I talked to her for a few minutes. She was in her garden.â

She moved restlessly on the pillows.

âIsnât that enough? Iâve told you. Why do you want to go on bothering me?â

Dr. Haydock moved to her side and felt her pulse.

He beckoned to Melchett.

âIâll stay with her,â he said in a whisper, âwhilst you make the necessary arrangements. She oughtnât to be left. Might do herself a mischief.â

Melchett nodded.

We left the room and descended the stairs. I saw a thin, cadaverous-looking man come out of the adjoining room and on impulse I remounted the stairs.

âAre you Colonel Protheroeâs valet?â

The man looked surprised. âYes, sir.â

âDo you know whether your late master kept a pistol anywhere?â

âNot that I know of, sir.â

âNot in one of the drawers of his dressing table? Think, man.â

The valet shook his head decisively.

âIâm quite sure he didnât, sir. Iâd have seen it if so. Bound to.â

I hurried down the stairs after the others.

Mrs. Protheroe had lied about the pistol.

Why?

Nine

After leaving a message at the police station, the Chief Constable announced his intention of paying a visit to Miss Marple.

âYouâd better come with me, Vicar,â he said. âI donât want to give a member of your flock hysterics. So lend the weight of your soothing presence.â

I smiled. For all her fragile appearance, Miss Marple is capable of holding her own with any policeman or Chief Constable in existence.

âWhatâs she like?â asked the Colonel, as we rang the bell. âAnything she says to be depended upon or otherwise?â

I considered the matter.

âI think she is quite dependable,â I said cautiously. âThat is, in so far as she is talking of what she has actually seen. Beyond that, of course, when you get on to what she thinksâwell, that is another matter. She has a powerful imagination and systematically thinks the worst of everyone.â

âThe typical elderly spinster, in fact,â said Melchett, with a laugh. âWell, I ought to know the breed by now. Gad, the tea parties down here!â

We were admitted by a very diminutive maid and shown into a small drawing room.

âA bit crowded,â said Colonel Melchett, looking round. âBut plenty of good stuff. A ladyâs room, eh, Clement?â

I agreed, and at that moment the door opened and Miss Marple made her appearance.

âVery sorry to bother you, Miss Marple,â said the Colonel, when I had introduced him, putting on his bluff military manner which he had an idea was attractive to elderly ladies. âGot to do my duty, you know.â

âOf course, of course,â said Miss Marple. âI quite understand. Wonât you sit down? And might I offer you a little glass of cherry brandy? My own making. A recipe of my grandmotherâs.â

âThank you very much, Miss Marple. Very kind of you. But I think I wonât. Nothing till lunch time, thatâs my motto. Now, I want to talk to you about this sad businessâvery sad business indeed. Upset us all, Iâm sure. Well, it seems possible that owing to the position of your house and garden, you may have been able to tell us something we want to know about yesterday evening.â

âAs a matter of fact, I was in my little garden from five oâclock onwards yesterday, and, of course, from thereâwell, one simply cannot help seeing anything that is going on next door.â

âI understand, Miss Marple, that Mrs. Protheroe passed this way yesterday evening?â

âYes, she did. I called out to her, and she admired my roses.â

âCould you tell us about what time that was?â

âI should say it was just a minute or two after a quarter past six. Yes, thatâs right. The church clock had just chimed the quarter.â

âVery good. What happened next?â

âWell, Mrs. Protheroe said she was calling for her husband at the Vicarage so that they could go home together. She had come along the lane, you understand, and she went into the Vicarage by the back gate and across the garden.â

âShe came from the lane?â

âYes, Iâll show you.â

Full of eagerness, Miss Marple led us out into the garden and pointed out the lane that ran along by the bottom of the garden.

âThe path opposite with the stile leads to the Hall,â she explained. âThat was the way they were going home together. Mrs. Protheroe came from the village.â

âPerfectly, perfectly,â said Colonel Melchett. âAnd she went across to the Vicarage, you say?â

âYes. I saw her turn the corner of the house. I suppose the Colonel wasnât there yet, because she came back almost immediately, and went down the lawn to the studioâthat building there. The one the Vicar lets Mr. Redding use as a studio.â

âI see. Andâyou didnât hear a shot, Miss Marple?â

âI didnât hear a shot then,â said Miss Marple.

âBut you did hear one sometime?â

âYes, I think there was a shot somewhere in the woods. But quite five or ten minutes afterwardsâand, as I say, out in the woods. At least, I think so. It couldnât have beenâsurely it couldnât have beenââ

She stopped, pale with excitement.

âYes, yes, weâll come to all that presently,â said Colonel Melchett. âPlease go on with your story. Mrs. Protheroe went down to the studio?â

âYes, she went inside and waited. Presently Mr. Redding came along the lane from the village. He came to the Vicarage gate, looked all roundââ

âAnd saw you, Miss Marple.â

âAs a matter of fact, he didnât see me,â said Miss Marple, flushing slightly. âBecause, you see, just at that minute I was bending right overâtrying to get up one of those nasty dandelions, you know. So difficult. And then he went through the gate and down to the studio.â

âHe didnât go near the house?â

âOh, no! He went straight to the studio. Mrs. Protheroe came to the door to meet him, and then they both went inside.â

Here Miss Marple contributed a singularly eloquent pause.

âPerhaps she was sitting for him?â I suggested.

âPerhaps,â said Miss Marple.

âAnd they came outâwhen?â

âAbout ten minutes later.â

âThat was roughly?â

âThe church clock had chimed the half hour. They strolled out through the garden gate and along the lane, and just at that minute, Dr. Stone came down the path leading to the Hall, and climbed over the stile and joined them. They all walked towards the village together. At the end of the lane, I think, but I canât be quite sure, they were joined by Miss Cram. I think it must have been Miss Cram because her skirts were so short.â

âYou must have very good eyesight, Miss Marple, if you can observe as far as that.â

âI was observing a bird,â said Miss Marple. âA golden crested wren, I think he was. A sweet little fellow. I had my glasses out, and thatâs how I happened to see Miss Cram (if it was Miss Cram, and I think so), join them.â

âAh! Well, that may be so,â said Colonel Melchett. âNow, since you seem very good at observing, did you happen to notice, Miss Marple, what sort of expression Mrs. Protheroe and Mr. Redding had as they passed along the lane?â

âThey were smiling and talking,â said Miss Marple. âThey seemed very happy to be together, if you know what I mean.â

âThey didnât seem upset or disturbed in any way?â

âOh, no! Just the opposite.â

âDeuced odd,â said the Colonel. âThereâs something deuced odd about the whole thing.â

Miss Marple suddenly took our breath away by remarking in a placid voice:

âHas Mrs. Protheroe been saying that she committed the crime now?â

âUpon my soul,â said the Colonel, âhow did you come to guess that, Miss Marple?â

âWell, I rather thought it might happen,â said Miss Marple. âI think dear Lettice thought so, too. Sheâs really a very sharp girl. Not always very scrupulous, Iâm afraid. So Anne Protheroe says she killed her husband. Well, well. I donât think itâs true. No, Iâm almost sure it isnât true. Not with a woman like Anne Protheroe. Although one never can be quite sure about anyone, can one? At least thatâs what Iâve found. When does she say she shot him?â

âAt twenty minutes past six. Just after speaking to you.â

Miss Marple shook her head slowly and pityingly. The pity was, I think, for two full-grown men being so foolish as to believe such a story. At least that is what we felt like.

âWhat did she shoot him with?â

âA pistol.â

âWhere did she find it?â

âShe brought it with her.â

âWell, that she didnât do,â said Miss Marple, with unexpected decision. âI can swear to that. Sheâd no such thing with her.â

âYou mightnât have seen it.â

âOf course I should have seen it.â

âIf it had been in her handbag.â

âShe wasnât carrying a handbag.â

âWell, it might have been concealedâerâupon her person.â

Miss Marple directed a glance of sorrow and scorn upon him.

âMy dear Colonel Melchett, you know what young women are nowadays. Not ashamed to show exactly how the creator made them. She hadnât so much as a handkerchief in the top of her stocking.â

Melchett was obstinate.

âYou must admit that it all fits in,â he said. âThe time, the overturned clock pointing to 6:22ââ

Miss Marple turned on me.

âDo you mean you havenât told him about that clock yet?â

âWhat about the clock, Clement?â

I told him. He showed a good deal of annoyance.

âWhy on earth didnât you tell Slack this last night?â

âBecause,â I said, âhe wouldnât let me.â

âNonsense, you ought to have insisted.â

âProbably,â I said, âInspector Slack behaves quite differently to you than he does to me. I had no earthly chance of insisting.â

âItâs an extraordinary business altogether,â said Melchett. âIf a third person comes along and claims to have done this murder, I shall go into a lunatic asylum.â

âIf I might be allowed to suggestââ murmured Miss Marple.

âWell?â

âIf you were to tell Mr. Redding what Mrs. Protheroe has done and then explain that you donât really believe it is her. And then if you were to go to Mrs. Protheroe and tell her that Mr. Redding is all rightâwhy then, they might each of them tell you the truth. And the truth is helpful, though I dare say they donât know very much themselves, poor things.â

âItâs all very well, but they are the only two people who had a motive for making away with Protheroe.â

âOh, I wouldnât say that, Colonel Melchett,â said Miss Marple.

âWhy, can you think of anyone else?â

âOh! yes, indeed. Why,â she counted on her fingers, âone, two, three, four, five, sixâyes, and a possible seven. I can think of at least seven people who might be very glad to have Colonel Protheroe out of the way.â

The Colonel looked at her feebly.

âSeven people? In St. Mary Mead?â

Miss Marple nodded brightly.

âMind you I name no names,â she said. âThat wouldnât be right. But Iâm afraid thereâs a lot of wickedness in the world. A nice honourable upright soldier like you doesnât know about these things, Colonel Melchett.â

I thought the Chief Constable was going to have apoplexy.

Ten

His remarks on the subject of Miss Marple as we left the house were far from complimentary.

âI really believe that wizened-up old maid thinks she knows everything there is to know. And hardly been out of this village all her life. Preposterous. What can she know of life?â

I said mildly that though doubtless Miss Marple knew next to nothing of Life with a capital L, she knew practically everything that went on in St. Mary Mead.

Melchett admitted that grudgingly. She was a valuable witnessâparticularly valuable from Mrs. Protheroeâs point of view.

âI suppose thereâs no doubt about what she says, eh?â

âIf Miss Marple says she had no pistol with her, you can take it for granted that it is so,â I said. âIf there was the least possibility of such a thing, Miss Marple would have been on to it like a knife.â

âThatâs true enough. Weâd better go and have a look at the studio.â

The so-called studio was a mere rough shed with a skylight. There were no windows and the door was the only means of entrance or egress. Satisfied on this score, Melchett announced his intention of visiting the Vicarage with the Inspector.

âIâm going to the police station now.â

As I entered through the front door, a murmur of voices caught my ear. I opened the drawing room door.

On the sofa beside Griselda, conversing animatedly, sat Miss Gladys Cram. Her legs, which were encased in particularly shiny pink stockings, were crossed, and I had every opportunity of observing that she wore pink striped silk knickers.

âHullo, Len,â said Griselda.

âGood morning, Mr. Clement,â said Miss Cram. âIsnât the news about the Colonel really too awful? Poor old gentleman.â

âMiss Cram,â said my wife, âvery kindly came in to offer to help us with the Guides. We asked for helpers last Sunday, you remember.â

I did remember, and I was convinced, and so, I knew from her tone, was Griselda, that the idea of enrolling herself among them would never have occurred to Miss Cram but for the exciting incident which had taken place at the Vicarage.

âI was only just saying to Mrs. Clement,â went on Miss Cram, âyou could have struck me all of a heap when I heard the news. A murder? I said. In this quiet one-horse villageâfor quiet it is, you must admitânot so much as a picture house, and as for Talkies! And then when I heard it was Colonel Protheroeâwhy, I simply couldnât believe it. He didnât seem the kind, somehow, to get murdered.â

âAnd so,â said Griselda, âMiss Cram came round to find out all about it.â

I feared this plain speaking might offend the lady, but she merely flung her head back and laughed uproariously, showing every tooth she possessed.

âThatâs too bad. Youâre a sharp one, arenât you, Mrs. Clement? But itâs only natural, isnât it, to want to hear the ins and outs of a case like this? And Iâm sure Iâm willing enough to help with the Guides in any way you like. Exciting, thatâs what it is. Iâve been stagnating for a bit of fun. I have, really I have. Not that my job isnât a very good one, well paid, and Dr. Stone quite the gentleman in every way. But a girl wants a bit of life out of office hours, and except for you, Mrs. Clement, who is there in the place to talk to except a lot of old cats?â

âThereâs Lettice Protheroe,â I said.

Gladys Cram tossed her head.

âSheâs too high and mighty for the likes of me. Fancies herself the country, and wouldnât demean herself by noticing a girl who had to work for her living. Not but what I did hear her talking of earning her living herself. And whoâd employ her, I should like to know? Why, sheâd be fired in less than a week. Unless she went as one of those mannequins, all dressed up and sidling about. She could do that, I expect.â

âSheâd make a very good mannequin,â said Griselda. âSheâs got such a lovely figure.â Thereâs nothing of the cat about Griselda. âWhen was she talking of earning her own living?â

Miss Cram seemed momentarily discomfited, but recovered herself with her usual archness.

âThat would be telling, wouldnât it?â she said. âBut she did say so. Things not very happy at home, I fancy. Catch me living at home with a stepmother. I wouldnât sit down under it for a minute.â

âAh! but youâre so high spirited and independent,â said Griselda gravely, and I looked at her with suspicion.

Miss Cram was clearly pleased.

âThatâs right. Thatâs me all over. Can be led, not driven. A palmist told me that not so very long ago. No. Iâm not one to sit down and be bullied. And Iâve made it clear all along to Dr. Stone that I must have my regular times off. These scientific gentlemen, they think a girlâs a kind of machineâhalf the time they just donât notice her or remember sheâs there. Of course, I donât know much about it,â confessed the girl.

âDo you find Dr. Stone pleasant to work with? It must be an interesting job if you are interested in archaeology.â

âIt still seems to me that digging up people that are dead and have been dead for hundreds of years isnâtâwell, it seems a bit nosy, doesnât it? And thereâs Dr. Stone so wrapped up in it all, that half the time heâd forget his meals if it wasnât for me.â

âIs he at the barrow this morning?â asked Griselda.

Miss Cram shook her head.

âA bit under the weather this morning,â she explained. âNot up to doing any work. That means a holiday for little Gladys.â

âIâm sorry,â I said.

âOh! Itâs nothing much. Thereâs not going to be a second death. But do tell me, Mr. Clement, I hear youâve been with the police all morning. What do they think?â

âWell,â I said slowly, âthere is still a littleâuncertainty.â

âAh!â cried Miss Cram. âThen they donât think it is Mr. Lawrence Redding after all. So handsome, isnât he? Just like a movie star. And such a nice smile when he says good morning to you. I really couldnât believe my ears when I heard the police had arrested him. Still, one has always heard theyâre very stupidâthe county police.â

âYou can hardly blame them in this instance,â I said. âMr. Redding came in and gave himself up.â

âWhat?â the girl was clearly dumbfounded. âWellâof all the poor fish! If Iâd committed a murder, I wouldnât go straight off and give myself up. I should have thought Lawrence Redding would have had more sense. To give in like that! What did he kill Protheroe for? Did he say? Was it just a quarrel?â

âItâs not absolutely certain that he did kill him,â I said.

âBut surelyâif he says he hasâwhy really, Mr. Clement, he ought to know.â

âHe ought to, certainly,â I agreed. âBut the police are not satisfied with his story.â

âBut why should he say heâd done it if he hasnât?â

That was a point on which I had no intention of enlightening Miss Cram. Instead I said rather vaguely:

âI believe that in all prominent murder cases, the police receive numerous letters from people accusing themselves of the crime.â

Miss Cramâs reception of this piece of information was:

âThey must be chumps!â in a tone of wonder and scorn.

âWell,â she said with a sigh, âI suppose I must be trotting along.â She rose. âMr. Redding accusing himself of the murder will be a bit of news of Dr. Stone.â

âIs he interested?â asked Griselda.

Miss Cram furrowed her brows perplexedly.

âHeâs a queer one. You never can tell with him. All wrapped up in the past. Heâd a hundred times rather look at a nasty old bronze knife out of those humps of ground than he would see the knife Crippen cut up his wife with, supposing he had a chance to.â

âWell,â I said, âI must confess I agree with him.â

Miss Cramâs eyes expressed incomprehension and slight contempt. Then, with reiterated good-byes, she took her departure.

âNot such a bad sort, really,â said Griselda, as the door closed behind her. âTerribly common, of course, but one of those big, bouncing, good-humoured girls that you canât dislike. I wonder what really brought her here?â

âCuriosity.â

âYes, I suppose so. Now, Len, tell me all about it. Iâm simply dying to hear.â

I sat down and recited faithfully all the happenings of the morning, Griselda interpolating the narrative with little exclamations of surprise and interest.

âSo it was Anne Lawrence was after all along! Not Lettice. How blind weâve all been! That must have been what old Miss Marple was hinting at yesterday. Donât you think so?â

âYes,â I said, averting my eyes.

Mary entered.

âThereâs a couple of men hereâcome from a newspaper, so they say. Do you want to see them?â

âNo,â I said, âcertainly not. Refer them to Inspector Slack at the police station.â

Mary nodded and turned away.

âAnd when youâve got rid of them,â I said, âcome back here. Thereâs something I want to ask you.â

Mary nodded again.

It was some few minutes before she returned.

âHad a job getting rid of them,â she said. âPersistent. You never saw anything like it. Wouldnât take no for an answer.â

âI expect we shall be a good deal troubled with them,â I said. âNow, Mary, what I want to ask you is this: Are you quite certain you didnât hear the shot yesterday evening?â

âThe shot what killed him? No, of course I didnât. If I had of done, I should have gone in to see what had happened.â

âYes, butââ I was remembering Miss Marpleâs statement that she had heard a shot âin the woods.â I changed the form of my question. âDid you hear any other shotâone down in the wood, for instance?â

âOh! That.â The girl paused. âYes, now I come to think of it, I believe I did. Not a lot of shots, just one. Queer sort of bang it was.â

âExactly,â I said. âNow what time was that?â

âTime?â

âYes, time.â

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure. Well after teatime. I do know that.â

âCanât you get a little nearer than that?â

âNo, I canât. Iâve got my work to do, havenât I? I canât go on looking at clocks the whole timeâand it wouldnât be much good anywayâthe alarm loses a good three-quarters every day, and what with putting it on and one thing and another, Iâm never exactly sure what time it is.â

This perhaps explains why our meals are never punctual. They are sometimes too late and sometimes bewilderingly early.

âWas it long before Mr. Redding came?â

âNo, it wasnât long. Ten minutesâa quarter of an hourânot longer than that.â

I nodded my head, satisfied.

âIs that all?â said Mary. âBecause what I mean to say is, Iâve got the joint in the oven and the pudding boiling over as likely as not.â

âThatâs all right. You can go.â

She left the room, and I turned to Griselda.

âIs it quite out of the question to induce Mary to say sir or maâam?â

âI have told her. She doesnât remember. Sheâs just a raw girl, remember?â

âI am perfectly aware of that,â I said. âBut raw things do not necessarily remain raw for ever. I feel a tinge of cooking might be induced in Mary.â

âWell, I donât agree with you,â said Griselda. âYou know how little we can afford to pay a servant. If once we got her smartened up at all, sheâd leave. Naturally. And get higher wages. But as long as Mary canât cook and has those awful mannersâwell, weâre safe, nobody else would have her.â

I perceived that my wifeâs methods of housekeeping were not so entirely haphazard as I had imagined. A certain amount of reasoning underlay them. Whether it was worthwhile having a maid at the price of her not being able to cook, and having a habit of throwing dishes and remarks at one with the same disconcerting abruptness, was a debatable matter.

âAnd anyway,â continued Griselda, âyou must make allowances for her manners being worse than usual just now. You canât expect her to feel exactly sympathetic about Colonel Protheroeâs death when he jailed her young man.â

âDid he jail her young man?â

âYes, for poaching. You know, that man, Archer. Mary has been walking out with him for two years.â

âI didnât know that.â

âDarling Len, you never know anything.â

âItâs queer,â I said, âthat everyone says the shot came from the woods.â

âI donât think itâs queer at all,â said Griselda. âYou see, one so often hears shots in the wood. So naturally, when you do hear a shot, you just assume as a matter of course that it is in the wood. It probably just sounds a bit louder than usual. Of course, if one were in the next room, youâd realize that it was in the house, but from Maryâs kitchen with the window right the other side of the house, I donât believe youâd ever think of such a thing.â

The door opened again.

âColonel Melchettâs back,â said Mary. âAnd that police inspector with him, and they say theyâd be glad if youâd join them. Theyâre in the study.â

Eleven

I saw at a glance that Colonel Melchett and Inspector Slack had not been seeing eye to eye about the case. Melchett looked flushed and annoyed and the Inspector looked sulky.

âIâm sorry to say,â said Melchett, âthat Inspector Slack doesnât agree with me in considering young Redding innocent.â

âIf he didnât do it, what does he go and say he did it for?â asked Slack sceptically.

âMrs. Protheroe acted in an exactly similar fashion, remember, Slack.â

âThatâs different. Sheâs a woman, and women act in that silly way. Iâm not saying she did it for a moment. She heard he was accused and she trumped up a story. Iâm used to that sort of game. You wouldnât believe the fool things Iâve known women do. But Reddingâs different. Heâs got his head screwed on all right. And if he admits he did it, well, I say he did do it. Itâs his pistolâyou canât get away from that. And thanks to this business of Mrs. Protheroe, we know the motive. That was the weak point before, but now we know itâwhy, the whole thingâs plain sailing.â

âYou think he can have shot him earlier? At six thirty, say?â

âHe canât have done that.â

âYouâve checked up his movements?â

The Inspector nodded.

âHe was in the village near the Blue Boar at ten past six. From there he came along the back lane where you say the old lady next door saw himâshe doesnât miss much, I should sayâand kept his appointment with Mrs. Protheroe in the studio in the garden. They left there together just after six thirty, and went along the lane to the village, being joined by Dr. Stone. He corroborates that all rightâIâve seen him. They all stood talking just by the post office for a few minutes, then Mrs. Protheroe went into Miss Hartnellâs to borrow a gardening magazine. Thatâs all right too. Iâve seen Miss Hartnell. Mrs. Protheroe remained there talking to her till just on seven oâclock when she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and said she must get home.â

âWhat was her manner?â

âVery easy and pleasant, Miss Hartnell said. She seemed in good spiritsâMiss Hartnell is quite sure there was nothing on her mind.â

âWell, go on.â

âRedding, he went with Dr. Stone to the Blue Boar and they had a drink together. He left there at twenty minutes to seven, went rapidly along the village street and down the road to the Vicarage. Lots of people saw him.â

âNot down the back lane this time?â commented the Colonel.

âNoâhe came to the front, asked for the Vicar, heard Colonel Protheroe was there, went inâand shot himâjust as he said he did! Thatâs the truth of it, and we neednât look further.â

Melchett shook his head.

âThereâs the doctorâs evidence. You canât get away from that. Protheroe was shot not later than six thirty.â

âOh, doctors!â Inspector Slack looked contemptuous. âIf youâre going to believe doctors. Take out all your teethâthatâs what they do nowadaysâand then say theyâre very sorry, but all the time it was appendicitis. Doctors!â

âThis isnât a question of diagnosis. Dr. Haydock was absolutely positive on the point. You canât go against the medical evidence, Slack.â

âAnd thereâs my evidence for what it is worth,â I said, suddenly recalling a forgotten incident. âI touched the body and it was cold. That I can swear to.â

âYou see, Slack?â said Melchett.

âWell, of course, if thatâs so. But there it wasâa beautiful case. Mr. Redding only too anxious to be hanged, so to speak.â

âThat, in itself, strikes me as a little unnatural,â observed Colonel Melchett.

âWell, thereâs no accounting for tastes,â said the Inspector. âThereâs a lot of gentlemen went a bit balmy after the war. Now, I suppose, it means starting again at the beginning.â He turned on me. âWhy you went out of your way to mislead me about the clock, sir, I canât think. Obstructing the ends of justice, thatâs what that was.â

âI tried to tell you on three separate occasions,â I said. âAnd each time you shut me up and refused to listen.â

âThatâs just a way of speaking, sir. You could have told me perfectly well if you had had a mind to. The clock and the note seemed to tally perfectly. Now, according to you, the clock was all wrong. I never knew such a case. Whatâs the sense of keeping a clock a quarter of an hour fast anyway?â

âIt is supposed,â I said, âto induce punctuality.â

âI donât think we need go further into that now, Inspector,â said Colonel Melchett tactfully. âWhat we want now is the true story from both Mrs. Protheroe and young Redding. I telephoned to Haydock and asked him to bring Mrs. Protheroe over here with him. They ought to be here in about a quarter of an hour. I think it would be as well to have Redding here first.â

âIâll get on to the station,â said Inspector Slack, and took up the telephone.

âAnd now,â he said, replacing the receiver, âweâll get to work on this room.â He looked at me in a meaningful fashion.

âPerhaps,â I said, âyouâd like me out of the way.â

The Inspector immediately opened the door for me. Melchett called out:

âCome back when young Redding arrives, will you, Vicar? Youâre a friend of his and you may have sufficient influence to persuade him to speak the truth.â

I found my wife and Miss Marple with their heads together.

âWeâve been discussing all sorts of possibilities,â said Griselda. âI wish youâd solve the case, Miss Marple, like you did the time Miss Wetherbyâs gill of picked shrimps disappeared. And all because it reminded you of something quite different about a sack of coals.â

âYouâre laughing, my dear,â said Miss Marple, âbut after all, that is a very sound way of arriving at the truth. Itâs really what people call intuition and make such a fuss about. Intuition is like reading a word without having to spell it out. A child canât do that because it has had so little experience. But a grown-up person knows the word because theyâve seen it often before. You catch my meaning, Vicar?â

âYes,â I said slowly, âI think I do. You mean that if a thing reminds you of something elseâwell, itâs probably the same kind of thing.â

âExactly.â

âAnd what precisely does the murder of Colonel Protheroe remind you of?â

Miss Marple sighed.

âThat is just the difficulty. So many parallels come to the mind. For instance, there was Major Hargreaves, a churchwarden and a man highly respected in every way. And all the time he was keeping a separate second establishmentâa former housemaid, just think of it! And five childrenâactually five childrenâa terrible shock to his wife and daughter.â

I tried hard to visualize Colonel Protheroe in the rÃ´le of secret sinner and failed.

âAnd then there was that laundry business,â went on Miss Marple. âMiss Hartnellâs opal pinâleft most imprudently in a frilled blouse and sent to the laundry. And the woman who took it didnât want it in the least and wasnât by any means a thief. She simply hid it in another womanâs house and told the police sheâd seen this other woman take it. Spite, you know, sheer spite. Itâs an astonishing motiveâspite. A man in it, of course. There always is.â

This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote.

âAnd then there was poor Elwellâs daughterâsuch a pretty ethereal girlâtried to stifle her little brother. And there was the money for the Choir Boysâ Outing (before your time, Vicar) actually taken by the organist. His wife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think so many thingsâtoo many. Itâs very hard to arrive at the truth.â

âI wish you would tell me,â I said, âwho were the seven suspects?â

âThe seven suspects?â

âYou said you could think of seven people who wouldâwell, be glad of Colonel Protheroeâs death.â

âDid I? Yes, I remember I did.â

âWas that true?â

âOh! Certainly it was true. But I mustnât mention names. You can think of them quite easily yourself. I am sure.â

âIndeed I canât. There is Lettice Protheroe, I suppose, since she probably comes into money on her fatherâs death. But it is absurd to think of her in such a connection, and outside her I can think of nobody.â

âAnd you, my dear?â said Miss Marple, turning to Griselda.

Rather to my surprise Griselda coloured up. Something very like tears started into her eyes. She clenched both her small hands.

âOh!â she cried indignantly. âPeople are hatefulâhateful. The things they say! The beastly things they sayâ¦.â

I looked at her curiously. It is very unlike Griselda to be so upset. She noticed my glance and tried to smile.

âDonât look at me as though I were an interesting specimen you didnât understand, Len. Donât letâs get heated and wander from the point. I donât believe that it was Lawrence or Anne, and Lettice is out of the question. There must be some clue or other that would help us.â

âThere is the note, of course,â said Miss Marple. âYou will remember my saying this morning that that struck me as exceedingly peculiar.â

âIt seems to fix the time of his death with remarkable accuracy,â I said. âAnd yet, is that possible? Mrs. Protheroe would only have just left the study. She would hardly have had time to reach the studio. The only way in which I can account for it is that he consulted his own watch and that his watch was slow. That seems to me a feasible solution.â

âI have another idea,â said Griselda. âSuppose, Len, that the clock had already been put backâno, that comes to the same thingâhow stupid of me!â

âIt hadnât been altered when I left,â I said. âI remember comparing it with my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present matter.â

âWhat do you think, Miss Marple?â asked Griselda.

âMy dear, I confess I wasnât thinking about it from that point of view at all. What strikes me as so curious, and has done from the first, is the subject matter of that letter.â

âI donât see that,â I said. âColonel Protheroe merely wrote that he couldnât wait any longerââ

âAt twenty minutes past six?â said Miss Marple. âYour maid, Mary, had already told him that you wouldnât be in till half past six at the earliest, and he appeared to be quite willing to wait until then. And yet at twenty past six he sits down and says he âcanât wait any longer.ââ

I stared at the old lady, feeling an increased respect for her mental powers. Her keen wits had seen what we had failed to perceive. It was an odd thingâa very odd thing.

âIf only,â I said, âthe letter hadnât been datedââ

Miss Marple nodded her head.

âExactly,â she said. âIf it hadnât been dated!â

I cast my mind back, trying to recall that sheet of notepaper and the blurred scrawl, and at the top that neatly printed 6:20. Surely these figures were on a different scale to the rest of the letter. I gave a gasp.

âSupposing,â I said, âit wasnât dated. Supposing that round about 6:30 Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldnât wait any longer. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in through the windowââ

âOr through the door,â suggested Griselda.

âHeâd hear the door and look up.â

âColonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember,â said Miss Marple.

âYes, thatâs true. He wouldnât hear it. Whichever way the murderer came, he stole up behind the Colonel and shot him. Then he saw the note and the clock and the idea came to him. He put 6:20 at the top of the letter and he altered the clock to 6:22. It was a clever idea. It gave him, or so he would think, a perfect alibi.â

âAnd what we want to find,â said Griselda, âis someone who has a cast-iron alibi for 6:20, but no alibi at all forâwell, that isnât so easy. One canât fix the time.â

âWe can fix it within very narrow limits,â I said. âHaydock places 6:30 as the outside limit of time. I suppose one could perhaps shift it to 6:35 from the reasoning we have just been following out, it seems clear that Protheroe would not have got impatient before 6:30. I think we can say we do know pretty well.â

âThen that shot I heardâyes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I thought nothing about itânothing at all. Most vexing. And yet, now I try to recollect, it does seem to me that it was different from the usual sort of shot one hears. Yes, there was a difference.â

âLouder?â I suggested.

No, Miss Marple didnât think it had been louder. In fact, she found it hard to say in what way it had been different, but she still insisted that it was.

I thought she was probably persuading herself of the fact rather than actually remembering it, but she had just contributed such a valuable new outlook to the problem that I felt highly respectful towards her.

She rose, murmuring that she must really get backâit had been so tempting just to run over and discuss the case with dear Griselda. I escorted her to the boundary wall and the back gate and returned to find Griselda wrapped in thought.

âStill puzzling over that note?â I asked.

âNo.â

She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.

âLen, Iâve been thinking. How badly someone must have hated Anne Protheroe!â

âHated her?â

âYes. Donât you see? Thereâs no real evidence against Lawrenceâall the evidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens to take it into his head to come here. If he hadnâtâwell, no one would have thought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different. Suppose someone knew that she was here at exactly 6:20âthe clock and the time on the letterâeverything pointing to her. I donât think it was only because of an alibi it was moved to that exact timeâI think there was more in it than thatâa direct attempt to fasten the business on her. If it hadnât been for Miss Marple saying she hadnât got the pistol with her and noticing that she was only a moment before going down to the studioâYes, if it hadnât been for that â¦â She shivered again. âLen, I feel that someone hated Anne Protheroe very much. IâI donât like it.â

Twelve

I was summoned to the study when Lawrence Redding arrived. He looked haggard, and, I thought, suspicious. Colonel Melchett greeted him with something approaching cordiality.

âWe want to ask you a few questionsâhere, on the spot,â he said.

Lawrence sneered slightly.

âIsnât that a French idea? Reconstruction of the crime?â

âMy dear boy,â said Colonel Melchett, âdonât take that tone with us. Are you aware that someone else has also confessed to committing the crime which you pretend to have committed?â

The effect of these words on Lawrence was painful and immediate.

âS-s-omeone else?â he stammered. âWhoâwho?â

âMrs. Protheroe,â said Colonel Melchett, watching him.

âAbsurd. She never did it. She couldnât have. Itâs impossible.â

Melchett interrupted him.

âStrangely enough, we did not believe her story. Neither, I may say, do we believe yours. Dr. Haydock says positively that the murder could not have been committed at the time you say it was.â

âDr. Haydock says that?â

âYes, so, you see, you are cleared whether you like it or not. And now we want you to help us, to tell us exactly what occurred.â

Lawrence still hesitated.

âYouâre not deceiving me aboutâabout Mrs. Protheroe? You really donât suspect her?â

âOn my word of honour,â said Colonel Melchett.

Lawrence drew a deep breath.

âIâve been a fool,â he said. âAn absolute fool. How could I have thought for one minute that she did itââ

âSuppose you tell us all about it?â suggested the Chief Constable.

âThereâs not much to tell. IâI met Mrs. Protheroe that afternoonââ He paused.

âWe know all about that,â said Melchett. âYou may think that your feeling for Mrs. Protheroe and hers for you was a dead secret, but in reality it was known and commented upon. In any case, everything is bound to come out now.â

âVery well, then. I expect you are right. I had promised the Vicar here (he glanced at me) toâto go right away. I met Mrs. Protheroe that evening in the studio at a quarter past six. I told her of what I had decided. She, too, agreed that it was the only thing to do. Weâwe said good-bye to each other.

âWe left the studio, and almost at once Dr. Stone joined us. Anne managed to seem marvellously natural. I couldnât do it. I went off with Stone to the Blue Boar and had a drink. Then I thought Iâd go home, but when I got to the corner of this road, I changed my mind and decided to come along and see the Vicar. I felt I wanted someone to talk to about the matter.

âAt the door, the maid told me the Vicar was out, but would be in shortly, but that Colonel Protheroe was in the study waiting for him. Well, I didnât like to go away againâlooked as though I were shirking meeting him. So I said Iâd wait too, and I went into the study.â

He stopped.

âWell?â said Colonel Melchett.

âProtheroe was sitting at the writing tableâjust as you found him. I went up to himâtouched him. He was dead. Then I looked down and saw the pistol lying on the floor beside him. I picked it upâand at once saw that it was my pistol.

âThat gave me a turn. My pistol! And then, straightaway I leaped to one conclusion. Anne must have bagged my pistol some time or otherâmeaning it for herself if she couldnât bear things any longer. Perhaps she had had it with her today. After we parted in the village she must have come back here andâandâoh! I suppose I was mad to think of it. But thatâs what I thought. I slipped the pistol in my pocket and came away. Just outside the Vicarage gate, I met the Vicar. He said something nice and normal about seeing Protheroeâsuddenly I had a wild desire to laugh. His manner was so ordinary and everyday and there was I all strung up. I remember shouting out something absurd and seeing his face change. I was nearly off my head, I believe. I went walkingâwalkingâat last I couldnât bear it any longer. If Anne had done this ghastly thing, I was, at least, morally responsible. I went and gave myself up.â

There was a silence when he had finished. Then the Colonel said in a businesslike voice:

âI would like to ask just one or two questions. First, did you touch or move the body in any way?â

âNo, I didnât touch it at all. One could see he was dead without touching him.â

âDid you notice a note lying on the blotter half concealed by his body?â

âNo.â

âDid you interfere in any way with the clock?â

âI never touched the clock. I seem to remember a clock lying overturned on the table, but I never touched it.â

âNow as to this pistol of yours, when did you last see it?â

Lawrence Redding reflected. âItâs hard to say exactly.â

âWhere do you keep it?â

âOh, in a litter of odds and ends in the sitting room in my cottage. On one of the shelves of the bookcase.â

âYou left it lying about carelessly?â

âYes. I really didnât think about it. It was just there.â

âSo that anyone who came to your cottage could have seen it?â

âYes.â

âAnd you donât remember when you last saw it?â

Lawrence drew his brows together in a frown of recollection.

âIâm almost sure it was there the day before yesterday. I remember pushing it aside to get an old pipe. I think it was the day before yesterdayâbut it may have been the day before that.â

âWho has been to your cottage lately?â

âOh! Crowds of people. Someone is always drifting in and out. I had a sort of tea party the day before yesterday. Lettice Protheroe, Dennis, and all their crowd. And then one or other of the old Pussies comes in now and again.â

âDo you lock the cottage up when you go out?â

âNo; why on earth should I? Iâve nothing to steal. And no one does lock their house up round here.â

âWho looks after your wants there?â

âAn old Mrs. Archer comes in every morning to âdo for meâ as itâs called.â

âDo you think she would remember when the pistol was there last?â

âI donât know. She might. But I donât fancy conscientious dusting is her strong point.â

âIt comes to thisâthat almost anyone might have taken that pistol?â

âIt seems soâyes.â

The door opened and Dr. Haydock came in with Anne Protheroe.

She started at seeing Lawrence. He, on his part, made a tentative step towards her.

âForgive me, Anne,â he said. âIt was abominable of me to think what I did.â

âIââ She faltered, then looked appealingly at Colonel Melchett. âIs it true, what Dr. Haydock told me?â

âThat Mr. Redding is cleared of suspicion? Yes. And now what about this story of yours, Mrs. Protheroe? Eh, what about it?â

She smiled rather shamefacedly.

âI suppose you think it dreadful of me?â

âWell, shall we sayâvery foolish? But thatâs all over. What I want now, Mrs. Protheroe, is the truthâthe absolute truth.â

She nodded gravely.

âI will tell you. I suppose you know aboutâabout everything.â

âYes.â

âI was to meet LawrenceâMr. Reddingâthat evening at the studio. At a quarter past six. My husband and I drove into the village together. I had some shopping to do. As we parted he mentioned casually that he was going to see the Vicar. I couldnât get word to Lawrence, and I was rather uneasy. Iâwell, it was awkward meeting him in the Vicarage garden whilst my husband was at the Vicarage.â

Her cheeks burned as she said this. It was not a pleasant moment for her.

âI reflected that perhaps my husband would not stay very long. To find this out, I came along the back lane and into the garden. I hoped no one would see me, but of course old Miss Marple had to be in her garden! She stopped me and we said a few words, and I explained I was going to call for my husband. I felt I had to say something. I donât know whether she believed me or not. She looked ratherâfunny.

âWhen I left her, I went straight across to the Vicarage and round the corner of the house to the study window. I crept up to it very softly, expecting to hear the sound of voices. But to my surprise there were none. I just glanced in, saw the room was empty, and hurried across the lawn and down to the studio where Lawrence joined me almost at once.â

âYou say the room was empty, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âYes, my husband was not there.â

âExtraordinary.â

âYou mean, maâam, that you didnât see him?â said the Inspector.

âNo, I didnât see him.â

Inspector Slack whispered to the Chief Constable, who nodded.

âDo you mind, Mrs. Protheroe, just showing us exactly what you did?â

âNot at all.â

She rose, Inspector Slack pushed open the window for her, and she stepped out on the terrace and round the house to the left.

Inspector Slack beckoned me imperiously to go and sit at the writing table.

Somehow I didnât much like doing it. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling. But, of course, I complied.

Presently I heard footsteps outside, they paused for a minute, then retreated. Inspector Slack indicated to me that I could return to the other side of the room. Mrs. Protheroe reentered through the window.

âIs that exactly how it was?â asked Colonel Melchett.

âI think exactly.â

âThen can you tell us, Mrs. Protheroe, just exactly where the Vicar was in the room when you looked in?â asked Inspector Slack.

âThe Vicar? Iâno, Iâm afraid I canât. I didnât see him.â

Inspector Slack nodded.

âThatâs how you didnât see your husband. He was round the corner at the writing desk.â

âOh!â she paused. Suddenly her eyes grew round with horror. âIt wasnât there thatâthatââ

âYes, Mrs. Protheroe. It was while he was sitting there.â

âOh!â She quivered.

He went on with his questions.

âDid you know, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Redding had a pistol?â

âYes. He told me so once.â

âDid you ever have that pistol in your possession?â

She shook her head. âNo.â

âDid you know where he kept it?â

âIâm not sure. I thinkâyes, I think Iâve seen it on a shelf in his cottage. Didnât you keep it there, Lawrence?â

âWhen was the last time you were at the cottage, Mrs. Protheroe?â

âOh! About three weeks ago. My husband and I had tea there with him.â

âAnd you have not been there since?â

âNo. I never went there. You see, it would probably cause a lot of talk in the village.â

âDoubtless,â said Colonel Melchett dryly. âWhere were you in the habit of seeing Mr. Redding, if I may ask?â

âHe used to come up to the Hall. He was painting Lettice. Weâwe often met in the woods afterwards.â

Colonel Melchett nodded.

âIsnât that enough?â Her voice was suddenly broken. âItâs so awfulâhaving to tell you all these things. Andâand there wasnât anything wrong about it. There wasnâtâindeed, there wasnât. We were just friends. Weâwe couldnât help caring for each other.â

She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haydock, and that softhearted man stepped forward.

âI really think, Melchett,â he said, âthat Mrs. Protheroe has had enough. Sheâs had a great shockâin more ways than one.â

The Chief Constable nodded.

âThere is really nothing more I want to ask you, Mrs. Protheroe,â he said. âThank you for answering my questions so frankly.â

âThenâthen I may go?â

âIs your wife in?â asked Haydock. âI think Mrs. Protheroe would like to see her.â

âYes,â I said, âGriselda is in. Youâll find her in the drawing room.â

She and Haydock left the room together and Lawrence Redding with them.

Colonel Melchett had pursed up his lips and was playing with a paper knife. Slack was looking at the note. It was then that I mentioned Miss Marpleâs theory. Slack looked closely at it.

âMy word,â he said, âI believe the old ladyâs right. Look here, sir, donât you see?âthese figures are written in different ink. That date was written with a fountain pen or Iâll eat my boots!â

We were all rather excited.

âYouâve examined the note for fingerprints, of course,â said the Chief Constable.

âWhat do you think, Colonel? No fingerprints on the note at all. Fingerprints on the pistol those of Mr. Lawrence Redding. May have been some others once, before he went fooling round with it and carrying it around in his pocket, but thereâs nothing clear enough to get hold of now.â

âAt first the case looked very black against Mrs. Protheroe,â said the Colonel thoughtfully. âMuch blacker than against young Redding. There was that old woman Marpleâs evidence that she didnât have the pistol with her, but these elderly ladies are often mistaken.â

I was silent, but I did not agree with him. I was quite sure that Anne Protheroe had had no pistol with her since Miss Marple had said so. Miss Marple is not the type of elderly lady who makes mistakes. She has got an uncanny knack of being always right.

âWhat did get me was that nobody heard the shot. If it was fired thenâsomebody must have heard itâwherever they thought it came from. Slack, youâd better have a word with the maid.â

Inspector Slack moved with alacrity towards the door.

âI shouldnât ask her if she heard a shot in the house,â I said. âBecause if you do, sheâll deny it. Call it a shot in the wood. Thatâs the only kind of shot sheâll admit to hearing.â

âI know how to manage them,â said Inspector Slack, and disappeared.

âMiss Marple says she heard a shot later,â said Colonel Melchett thoughtfully. âWe must see if she can fix the time at all precisely. Of course it may be a stray shot that had nothing to do with the case.â

âIt may be, of course,â I agreed.

The Colonel took a turn or two up and down the room.

âDo you know, Clement,â he said suddenly, âIâve a feeling that this is going to turn out a much more intricate and difficult business than any of us think. Dash it all, thereâs something behind it.â He snorted. âSomething we donât know about. Weâre only beginning, Clement. Mark my words, weâre only beginning. All these things, the clock, the note, the pistolâthey donât make sense as they stand.â

I shook my head. They certainly didnât.

âBut Iâm going to get to the bottom of it. No calling in of Scotland Yard. Slackâs a smart man. Heâs a very smart man. Heâs a kind of ferret. Heâll nose his way through to the truth. Heâs done several very good things already, and this case will be his chef dâoeuvre. Some men would call in Scotland Yard. I shanât. Weâll get to the bottom of this here in Downshire.â

âI hope so, Iâm sure,â I said.

I tried to make my voice enthusiastic, but I had already taken such a dislike to Inspector Slack that the prospect of his success failed to appeal to me. A successful Slack would, I thought, be even more odious than a baffled one.

âWho has the house next door?â asked the Colonel suddenly.

âYou mean at the end of the road? Mrs. Price Ridley.â

âWeâll go along to her after Slack has finished with your maid. She might just possibly have heard something. She isnât deaf or anything, is she?â

âI should say her hearing is remarkably keen. Iâm going by the amount of scandal she has started by âjust happening to overhear accidentally.ââ

âThatâs the kind of woman we want. Oh! hereâs Slack.â

The Inspector had the air of one emerging from a severe tussle.

âPhew!â he said. âThatâs a tartar youâve got, sir.â

âMary is essentially a girl of strong character,â I replied.

âDoesnât like the police,â he said. âI cautioned herâdid what I could to put the fear of the law into her, but no good. She stood right up to me.â

âSpirited,â I said, feeling more kindly towards Mary.

âBut I pinned her down all right. She heard one shotâand one shot only. And it was a good long time after Colonel Protheroe came. I couldnât get her to name a time, but we fixed it at last by means of the fish. The fish was late, and she blew the boy up when he came, and he said it was barely half past six anyway, and it was just after that she heard the shot. Of course, thatâs not accurate, so to speak, but it gives us an idea.â

âHâm,â said Melchett.

âI donât think Mrs. Protheroeâs in this after all,â said Slack, with a note of regret in his voice. âShe wouldnât have had time, to begin with, and then women never like fiddling about with firearms. Arsenicâs more in their line. No, I donât think she did it. Itâs a pity!â He sighed.

Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs. Price Ridleyâs, and Slack approved.

âMay I come with you?â I asked. âIâm getting interested.â

I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud âHieâ greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.

âLook here,â he said to the Inspector, âwhat about that footprint I told you about?â

âGardenerâs,â said Inspector Slack laconically.

âYou donât think it might be someone else wearing the gardenerâs boots?â

âNo, I donât!â said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.

It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.

He held out a couple of burnt matches.

âI found these by the Vicarage gate.â

âThank you,â said Slack, and put them in his pocket.

Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.

âYouâre not arresting Uncle Len, are you?â inquired Dennis facetiously.

âWhy should I?â inquired Slack.

âThereâs a lot of evidence against him,â declared Dennis. âYou ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Werenât you, Uncle Len?â

âErââ I began.

Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realize that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.

âDonât be absurd, Dennis,â I said irritably.

The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.

âI say, itâs only a joke,â he said. âUncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.â

âAh!â said Inspector Slack, âthat explains something the maid said.â

Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the Inspector suspicious of me for life.

âCome on, Clement,â said Colonel Melchett.

âWhere are you going? Can I come, too?â asked Dennis.

âNo, you canât,â I snapped.

We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs house and the Inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.

âMrs. Price Ridley in?â inquired Melchett.

âNo, sir.â The maid paused and added: âSheâs just gone down to the police station.â

This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:

âIf sheâs gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.â

Thirteen

I hardly thought it likely that Mrs. Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.

We found Mrs. Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs. Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as âHats for Matronsââthey make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matronâs hat.

Mrs. Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.

âMrs. Price Ridley?â inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.

âLet me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs. Price Ridley,â I said. âColonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.â

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel.

âWeâve just been round to your house, Mrs. Price Ridley,â explained the Colonel, âand heard you had come down here.â

Mrs. Price Ridley thawed altogether.

âAh!â she said, âIâm glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.â

There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.

âHave you any light to throw upon the matter?â he asked.

âThatâs your business. Itâs the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?â

One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!

âWeâre doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley,â said the Chief Constable.

âBut the man here hadnât even heard of it till I told him about it!â cried the lady.

We all looked at the constable.

âLady been rung up on the telephone,â he said. âAnnoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.â

âOh! I see.â The Colonelâs brow cleared. âWeâve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?â

Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be doneâlisten to her. When she had said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.

Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech.

âSuch disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in oneâs own house and insultedâyes, insulted. Iâm not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wearââ

âQuite,â said Colonel Melchett hastily. âWhat happened exactly?â

Mrs. Price Ridley took breath and started again.

âI was rung upââ

âWhen?â

âYesterday afternoonâevening to be exact. About half past six. I went to the telephone, suspecting nothing. Immediately I was foully attacked, threatenedââ

âWhat actually was said?â

Mrs. Price Ridley got slightly pink.

âThat I decline to state.â

âObscene language,â murmured the constable in a ruminative bass.

âWas bad language used?â asked Colonel Melchett.

âIt depends on what you call bad language.â

âCould you understand it?â I asked.

âOf course I could understand it.â

âThen it couldnât have been bad language,â I said.

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me suspiciously.

âA refined lady,â I explained, âis naturally unacquainted with bad language.â

âIt wasnât that kind of thing,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âAt first, I must admit, I was quite taken in. I thought it was a genuine message. Then theâerâperson became abusive.â

âAbusive?â

âMost abusive. I was quite alarmed.â

âUsed threatening language, eh?â

âYes. I am not accustomed to being threatened.â

âWhat did they threaten you with? Bodily damage?â

âNot exactly.â

âIâm afraid, Mrs. Price Ridley, you must be more explicit. In what way were you threatened?â

This Mrs. Price Ridley seemed singularly reluctant to answer.

âI canât remember exactly. It was all so upsetting. But right at the endâwhen I was really very upset, thisâthisâwretch laughed.â

âWas it a manâs voice or a womanâs?â

âIt was a degenerate voice,â said Mrs. Price Ridley, with dignity. âI can only describe it as a kind of perverted voice. Now gruff, now squeaky. Really a very peculiar voice.â

âProbably a practical joke,â said the Colonel soothingly.

âA most wicked thing to do, if so. I might have had a heart attack.â

âWeâll look into it,â said the Colonel; âeh, Inspector? Trace the telephone call. You canât tell me more definitely exactly what was said, Mrs. Price Ridley?â

A struggle began in Mrs. Price Ridleyâs ample black bosom. The desire for reticence fought against a desire for vengeance. Vengeance triumphed.

âThis, of course, will go no further,â she began.

âOf course not.â

âThis creature began by sayingâI can hardly bring myself to repeat itââ

âYes, yes,â said Melchett encouragingly.

ââYou are a wicked scandal-mongering old woman!â Me, Colonel Melchettâa scandal-mongering old woman. âBut this time youâve gone too far. Scotland Yard are after you for libel.ââ

âNaturally, you were alarmed,â said Melchett, biting his moustache to conceal a smile.

ââUnless you hold your tongue in future, it will be the worse for youâin more ways than one.â I canât describe to you the menacing way that was said. I gasped, âwho are you?â faintlyâlike that, and the voice answered, âThe Avenger.â I gave a little shriek. It sounded so awful, and thenâthe person laughed. Laughed! Distinctly. And that was all. I heard them hang up the receiver. Of course I asked the exchange what number had been ringing me up, but they said they didnât know. You know what exchanges are. Thoroughly rude and unsympathetic.â

âQuite,â I said.

âI felt quite faint,â continued Mrs. Price Ridley. âAll on edge and so nervous that when I heard a shot in the woods, I do declare I jumped almost out of my skin. That will show you.â

âA shot in the woods?â said Inspector Slack alertly.

âIn my excited state, it simply sounded to me like a cannon going off. âOh!â I said, and sank down on the sofa in a state of prostration. Clara had to bring me a glass of damson gin.â

âShocking,â said Melchett. âShocking. All very trying for you. And the shot sounded very loud, you say? As though it were near at hand?â

âThat was simply the state of my nerves.â

âOf course. Of course. And what time was all this? To help us in tracing the telephone call, you know.â

âAbout half past six.â

âYou canât give it us more exactly than that?â

âWell, you see, the little clock on my mantelpiece had just chimed the half hour, and I said, âSurely that clock is fast.â (It does gain, that clock.) And I compared it with the watch I was wearing and that only said ten minutes past, but then I put it to my ear and found it had stopped. So I thought: âWell, if that clock is fast, I shall hear the church tower in a moment or two.â And then, of course, the telephone bell rang, and I forgot all about it.â She paused breathless.

âWell, thatâs near enough,â said Colonel Melchett. âWeâll have it looked into for you, Mrs. Price Ridley.â

âJust think of it as a silly joke, and donât worry, Mrs. Price Ridley,â I said.

She looked at me coldly. Evidently the incident of the pound note still rankled.

âVery strange things have been happening in this village lately,â she said, addressing herself to Melchett. âVery strange things indeed. Colonel Protheroe was going to look into them, and what happened to him, poor man? Perhaps I shall be the next?â

And on that she took her departure, shaking her head with a kind of ominous melancholy. Melchett muttered under his breath: âNo such luck.â Then his face grew grave, and he looked inquiringly at Inspector Slack.

That worthy nodded his head slowly.

âThis about settles it, sir. Thatâs three people who heard the shot. Weâve got to find out now who fired it. This business of Mr. Reddingâs has delayed us. But weâve got several starting points. Thinking Mr. Redding was guilty, I didnât bother to look into them. But thatâs all changed now. And now one of the first things to do is look up that telephone call.â

âMrs. Price Ridleyâs?â

The Inspector grinned.

âNoâthough I suppose weâd better make a note of that or else we shall have the old girl bothering in here again. No, I meant that fake call that got the Vicar out of the way.â

âYes,â said Melchett, âthatâs important.â

âAnd the next thing is to find out what everyone was doing that evening between six and seven. Everyone at Old Hall, I mean, and pretty well everyone in the village as well.â

I gave a sigh.

âWhat wonderful energy you have, Inspector Slack.â

âI believe in hard work. Weâll begin by just noting down your own movements, Mr. Clement.â

âWillingly. The telephone call came through about half past five.â

âA manâs voice, or a womanâs?â

âA womanâs. At least it sounded like a womanâs. But of course I took it for granted it was Mrs. Abbott speaking.â

âYou didnât recognize it as being Mrs. Abbottâs?â

âNo, I canât say I did. I didnât notice the voice particularly or think about it.â

âAnd you started right away? Walked? Havenât you got a bicycle?â

âNo.â

âI see. So it took youâhow long?â

âItâs very nearly two miles, whichever way you go.â

âThrough Old Hall woods is the shortest way, isnât it?â

âActually, yes. But itâs not particularly good going. I went and came back by the footpath across the fields.â

âThe one that comes out opposite the Vicarage gate?â

âYes.â

âAnd Mrs. Clement?â

âMy wife was in London. She arrived back by the 6:50 train.â

âRight. The maid Iâve seen. That finishes with the Vicarage. Iâll be off to Old Hall next. And then I want an interview with Mrs. Lestrange. Queer, her going to see Protheroe the night before he was killed. A lot of queer things about this case.â

I agreed.

Glancing at the clock, I realized that it was nearly lunchtime. I invited Melchett to partake of potluck with us, but he excused himself on the plea of having to go to the Blue Boar. The Blue Boar gives you a first-rate meal of the joint and two-vegetable type. I thought his choice was a wise one. After her interview with the police, Mary would probably be feeling more temperamental than usual.

Fourteen

On my way home, I ran into Miss Hartnell and she detained me at least ten minutes, declaiming in her deep bass voice against the improvidence and ungratefulness of the lower classes. The crux of the matter seemed to be that The Poor did not want Miss Hartnell in their houses. My sympathies were entirely on their side. I am debarred by my social standing from expressing my prejudices in the forceful manner they do.

I soothed her as best I could and made my escape.

Haydock overtook me in his car at the corner of the Vicarage road. âIâve just taken Mrs. Protheroe home,â he called.

He waited for me at the gate of his house.

âCome in a minute,â he said. I complied.

âThis is an extraordinary business,â he said, as he threw his hat on a chair and opened the door into his surgery.

He sank down on a shabby leather chair and stared across the room. He looked harried and perplexed.

I told him that we had succeeded in fixing the time of the shot. He listened with an almost abstracted air.

âThat lets Anne Protheroe out,â he said. âWell, well, Iâm glad itâs neither of those two. I like âem both.â

I believed him, and yet it occurred to me to wonder why, since, as he said, he liked them both, their freedom from complicity seemed to have had the result of plunging him in gloom. This morning he had looked like a man with a weight lifted from his mind, now he looked thoroughly rattled and upset.

And yet I was convinced that he meant what he said. He was fond of both Anne Protheroe and Lawrence Redding. Why, then, this gloomy absorption? He roused himself with an effort.

âI meant to tell you about Hawes. All this business has driven him out of my mind.â

âIs he really ill?â

âThereâs nothing radically wrong with him. You know, of course, that heâs had Encephalitis Lethargica, sleepy sickness, as itâs commonly called?â

âNo,â I said, very much surprised, âI didnât know anything of the kind. He never told me anything about it. When did he have it?â

âAbout a year ago. He recovered all rightâas far as one ever recovers. Itâs a strange diseaseâhas a queer moral effect. The whole character may change after it.â

He was silent for a moment or two, and then said:

âWe think with horror now of the days when we burnt witches. I believe the day will come when we will shudder to think that we ever hanged criminals.â

âYou donât believe in capital punishment?â

âItâs not so much that.â He paused. âYou know,â he said slowly, âIâd rather have my job than yours.â

âWhy?â

âBecause your job deals very largely with what we call right and wrongâand Iâm not at all sure that thereâs any such thing. Suppose itâs all a question of glandular secretion. Too much of one gland, too little of anotherâand you get your murderer, your thief, your habitual criminal. Clement, I believe the time will come when weâll be horrified to think of the long centuries in which weâve punished people for diseaseâwhich they canât help, poor devils. You donât hang a man for having tuberculosis.â

âHe isnât dangerous to the community.â

âIn a sense he is. He infects other people. Or take a man who fancies heâs the Emperor of China. You donât say how wicked of him. I take your point about the community. The community must be protected. Shut up these people where they canât do any harmâeven put them peacefully out of the wayâyes, Iâd go as far as that. But donât call it punishment. Donât bring shame on them and their innocent families.â

I looked at him curiously.

âIâve never heard you speak like this before.â

âI donât usually air my theories abroad. Today Iâm riding my hobby. Youâre an intelligent man, Clement, which is more than some parsons are. You wonât admit, I dare say, that thereâs no such thing as what is technically termed, âSin,â but youâre broadminded enough to consider the possibility of such a thing.â

âIt strikes at the root of all accepted ideas,â he said.

âYes, weâre a narrow-minded, self-righteous lot, only too keen to judge matters we know nothing about. I honestly believe crime is a case for the doctor, not the policeman and not the parson. In the future, perhaps, there wonât be any such thing.â

âYouâll have cured it?â

âWeâll have cured it. Rather a wonderful thought. Have you ever studied the statistics of crime? Noâvery few people have. I have, though. Youâd be amazed at the amount there is of adolescent crime, glands again, you see. Young Neil, the Oxfordshire murdererâkilled five little girls before he was suspected. Nice ladânever given any trouble of any kind. Lily Rose, the little Cornish girlâkilled her uncle because he docked her of sweets. Hit him when he was asleep with a coal hammer. Went home and a fortnight later killed her elder sister who had annoyed her about some trifling matter. Neither of them hanged, of course. Sent to a home. May be all right laterâmay not. Doubt if the girl will. The only thing she cares about is seeing the pigs killed. Do you know when suicide is commonest? Fifteen to sixteen years of age. From self-murder to murder of someone else isnât a very long step. But itâs not a moral lackâitâs a physical one.â

âWhat you say is terrible!â

âNoâitâs only new to you. New truths have to be faced. Oneâs ideas adjusted. But sometimesâit makes life difficult.â

He sat there, frowning, yet with a strange look of weariness.

âHaydock,â I said, âif you suspectedâif you knewâthat a certain person was a murderer, would you give that person up to the law, or would you be tempted to shield them?â

I was quite unprepared for the effect of my question. He turned on me angrily and suspiciously.

âWhat makes you say that, Clement? Whatâs in your mind? Out with it, man.â

âWhy, nothing particular,â I said, rather taken aback. âOnlyâwell, murder is in our minds just now. If by any chance you happened to discover the truthâI wondered how you would feel about it, that was all.â

His anger died down. He stared once more straight ahead of him like a man trying to read the answer to a riddle that perplexes him, yet which exists only in his own brain.

âIf I suspectedâif I knewâI should do my duty, Clement. At least, I hope so.â

âThe question isâwhich way would you consider your duty lay?â

He looked at me with inscrutable eyes.

âThat question comes to every man some time in his life, I suppose, Clement. And every man has to decide in his own way.â

âYou donât know?â

âNo, I donât knowâ¦.â

I felt the best thing was to change the subject.

âThat nephew of mine is enjoying this case thoroughly,â I said. âSpends his entire time looking for footprints and cigarette ash.â

Haydock smiled. âWhat age is he?â

âJust sixteen. You donât take tragedies seriously at that age. Itâs all Sherlock Holmes and Arsene Lupin to you.â

Haydock said thoughtfully:

âHeâs a fine-looking boy. What are you going to do with him?â

âI canât afford a University education, Iâm afraid. The boy himself wants to go into the Merchant Service. He failed for the Navy.â

âWellâitâs a hard lifeâbut he might do worse. Yes, he might do worse.â

âI must be going,â I exclaimed, catching sight of the clock. âIâm nearly half an hour late for lunch.â

My family were just sitting down when I arrived. They demanded a full account of the morningâs activities, which I gave them, feeling, as I did so, that most of it was in the nature of an anticlimax.

Dennis, however, was highly entertained by the history of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs telephone call, and went into fits of laughter as I enlarged upon the nervous shock her system had sustained and the necessity for reviving her with damson gin.

âServe the old cat right,â he exclaimed. âSheâs got the worst tongue in the place. I wish Iâd thought of ringing her up and giving her a fright. I say, Uncle Len, what about giving her a second dose?â

I hastily begged him to do nothing of the sort. Nothing is more dangerous than the well-meant efforts of the younger generation to assist you and show their sympathy.

Dennisâs mood changed suddenly. He frowned and put on his man of the world air.

âIâve been with Lettice most of the morning,â he said. âYou know, Griselda, sheâs really very worried. She doesnât want to show it, but she is. Very worried indeed.â

âI should hope so,â said Griselda, with a toss of her head.

Griselda is not too fond of Lettice Protheroe.

âI donât think youâre ever quite fair to Lettice.â

âDonât you?â said Griselda.

âLots of people donât wear mourning.â

Griselda was silent and so was I. Dennis continued:

âShe doesnât talk to most people, but she does talk to me. Sheâs awfully worried about the whole thing, and she thinks something ought to be done about it.â

âShe will find,â I said, âthat Inspector Slack shares her opinion. He is going up to Old Hall this afternoon, and will probably make the life of everybody there quite unbearable to them in his efforts to get at the truth.â

âWhat do you think is the truth, Len?â asked my wife suddenly.

âItâs hard to say, my dear. I canât say that at the moment Iâve any idea at all.â

âDid you say that Inspector Slack was going to trace that telephone callâthe one that took you to the Abbotts?ââ

âYes.â

âBut can he do it? Isnât it a very difficult thing to do?â

âI should not imagine so. The Exchange will have a record of the calls.â

âOh!â My wife relapsed into thought.

âUncle Len,â said my nephew, âwhy were you so ratty with me this morning for joking about your wishing Colonel Protheroe to be murdered?â

âBecause,â I said, âthere is a time for everything. Inspector Slack has no sense of humour. He took your words quite seriously, will probably cross-examine Mary, and will get out a warrant for my arrest.â

âDoesnât he know when a fellowâs ragging?â

âNo,â I said, âhe does not. He has attained his present position through hard work and zealous attention to duty. That has left him no time for the minor recreations of life.â

âDo you like him, Uncle Len?â

âNo,â I said, âI do not. From the first moment I saw him I disliked him intensely. But I have no doubt that he is a highly successful man in his profession.â

âYou think heâll find out who shot old Protheroe?â

âIf he doesnât,â I said, âit will not be for the want of trying.â

Mary appeared and said:

âMr. Hawes wants to see you. Iâve put him in the drawing room, and hereâs a note. Waiting for an answer. Verbal will do.â I tore open the note and read it.

âDear Mr. Clement,âI should be so very grateful if you could come and see me this afternoon as early as possible. I am in great trouble and would like your advice.

Sincerely yours,

Estelle Lestrange.â

âSay I will come round in about half an hour,â I said to Mary. Then I went into the drawing room to see Hawes.

Fifteen

Hawesâs appearance distressed me very much. His hands were shaking and his face kept twitching nervously. In my opinion he should have been in bed, and I told him so. He insisted that he was perfectly well.

âI assure you, sir, I never felt better. Never in my life.â

This was so obviously wide of the truth that I hardly knew how to answer. I have a certain admiration for a man who will not give in to illness, but Hawes was carrying the thing rather too far.

âI called to tell you how sorry I wasâthat such a thing should happen in the Vicarage.â

âYes,â I said, âitâs not very pleasant.â

âItâs terribleâquite terrible. It seems they havenât arrested Mr. Redding after all?â

âNo. That was a mistake. He madeâerârather a foolish statement.â

âAnd the police are now quite convinced that he is innocent?â

âPerfectly.â

âWhy is that, may I ask? Is itâI mean, do they suspect anyone else?â

I should never have suspected that Hawes would take such a keen interest in the details of a murder case. Perhaps it is because it happened in the Vicarage. He appeared as eager as a reporter.

âI donât know that I am completely in Inspector Slackâs confidence. As far as I know, he does not suspect anyone in particular. He is at present engaged in making inquiries.â

âYes. Yesâof course. But who can one imagine doing such a dreadful thing?â

I shook my head.

âColonel Protheroe was not a popular man, I know that. But murder! For murderâone would need a very strong motive.â

âSo I should imagine,â I said.

âWho could have such a motive? Have the police any idea?â

âI couldnât say.â

âHe might have made enemies, you know. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that he was the kind of man to have enemies. He had a reputation on the Bench for being very severe.â

âI suppose he had.â

âWhy, donât you remember, sir? He was telling you yesterday morning about having been threatened by that man Archer.â

âNow I come to think of it, so he did,â I said. âOf course, I remember. You were quite near us at the time.â

âYes, I overheard what he was saying. Almost impossible to help it with Colonel Protheroe. He had such a very loud voice, hadnât he? I remember being impressed by your own words. That when his time came, he might have justice meted out to him instead of mercy.â

âDid I say that?â I asked, frowning. My remembrance of my own words was slightly different.

âYou said it very impressively, sir. I was struck by your words. Justice is a terrible thing. And to think the poor man was struck down shortly afterwards. Itâs almost as though you had a premonition.â

âI had nothing of the sort,â I said shortly. I rather dislike Hawesâs tendency to mysticism. There is a touch of the visionary about him.

âHave you told the police about this man Archer, sir?â

âI know nothing about him.â

âI mean, have you repeated to them what Colonel Protheroe saidâabout Archer having threatened him?â

âNo,â I said slowly. âI have not.â

âBut you are going to do so?â

I was silent. I dislike hounding a man down who has already got the forces of law and order against him. I held no brief for Archer. He is an inveterate poacherâone of those cheerful neâer-do-weels that are to be found in any parish. Whatever he may have said in the heat of anger when he was sentenced I had no definite knowledge that he felt the same when he came out of prison.

âYou heard the conversation,â I said at last. âIf you feel it your duty to go to the police with it, you must do so.â

âIt would come better from you, sir.â

âPerhapsâbut to tell the truthâwell, Iâve no fancy for doing it. I might be helping to put the rope round the neck of an innocent man.â

âBut if he shot Colonel Protheroeââ

âOh, if! Thereâs no evidence of any kind that he did.â

âHis threats.â

âStrictly speaking, the threats were not his, but Colonel Protheroeâs. Colonel Protheroe was threatening to show Archer what vengeance was worth next time he caught him.â

âI donât understand your attitude, sir.â

âDonât you,â I said wearily. âYouâre a young man. Youâre zealous in the cause of right. When you get to my age, youâll find that you like to give people the benefit of the doubt.â

âItâs notâI meanââ

He paused, and I looked at him in surprise.

âYou havenât anyâany idea of your ownâas to the identity of the murderer, I mean?â

âGood heavens, no.â

Hawes persisted. âOr as to theâmotive?â

âNo. Have you?â

âI? No, indeed. I just wondered. If Colonel Protheroe hadâhad confided in you in any wayâmentioned anythingâ¦.â

âHis confidences, such as they were, were heard by the whole village street yesterday morning,â I said dryly.

âYes. Yes, of course. And you donât thinkâabout Archer?â

âThe police will know all about Archer soon enough,â I said. âIf Iâd heard him threaten Colonel Protheroe myself, that would be a different matter. But you may be sure that if he actually has threatened him, half the people in the village will have heard him, and the news will get to the police all right. You, of course, must do as you like about the matter.â

But Hawes seemed curiously unwilling to do anything himself.

The manâs whole attitude was nervous and queer. I recalled what Haydock had said about his illness. There, I supposed, lay the explanation.

He took his leave unwillingly, as though he had more to say, and didnât know how to say it.

Before he left, I arranged with him to take the service for the Mothersâ Union, followed by the meeting of District Visitors. I had several projects of my own for the afternoon.

Dismissing Hawes and his troubles from my mind I started off for Mrs. Lestrange.

On the table in the hall lay the Guardian and the Church Times unopened.

As I walked, I remembered that Mrs. Lestrange had had an interview with Colonel Protheroe the night before his death. It was possible that something had transpired in that interview which would throw light upon the problem of his murder.

I was shown straight into the little drawing room, and Mrs. Lestrange rose to meet me. I was struck anew by the marvellous atmosphere that this woman could create. She wore a dress of some dead black material that showed off the extraordinary fairness of her skin. There was something curiously dead about her face. Only the eyes were burningly alive. There was a watchful look in them today. Otherwise she showed no signs of animation.

âIt was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement,â she said, as she shook hands. âI wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong.â

âAs I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you.â

âYes, you said that. And you said it as though you meant it. Very few people, Mr. Clement, in this world have ever sincerely wished to help me.â

âI can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange.â

âIt is true. Most peopleâmost men, at any rate, are out for their own hand.â There was a bitterness in her voice.

I did not answer, and she went on:

âSit down, wonât you?â

I obeyed, and she took a chair facing me. She hesitated a moment and then began to speak very slowly and thoughtfully, seeming to weigh each word as she uttered it.

âI am in a very peculiar position, Mr. Clement, and I want to ask your advice. That is, I want to ask your advice as to what I should do next. What is past is past and cannot be undone. You understand?â

Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face:

âOh! Please, maâam, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please.â

There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrangeâs face did not change. Only her eyes very slowly closed and opened again. She seemed to swallow once or twice, then she said in exactly the same clear, calm voice: âShow him in, Hilda.â

I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand.

âIf you do not mindâI should be much obliged if you would stay.â

I resumed my seat.

âCertainly, if you wish it,â I murmured, as Slack entered with a brisk regulation tread.

âGood afternoon, madam,â he began.

âGood afternoon, Inspector.â

At this moment, he caught sight of me and scowled. There is no doubt about it, Slack does not like me.

âYou have no objection to the Vicarâs presence, I hope?â

I suppose that Slack could not very well say he had.

âNo-o,â he said grudgingly. âThough, perhaps, it might be betterââ

Mrs. Lestrange paid no attention to the hint.

âWhat can I do for you, Inspector?â she asked.

âItâs this way, madam. Murder of Colonel Protheroe. Iâm in charge of the case and making inquiries.â

Mrs. Lestrange nodded.

âJust as a matter of form, Iâm asking every one just where they were yesterday evening between the hours of 6 and 7 p.m. Just as a matter of form, you understand.â

âYou want to know where I was yesterday evening between six and seven?â

âIf you please, madam.â

âLet me see.â She reflected a moment. âI was here. In this house.â

âOh!â I saw the Inspectorâs eyes flash. âAnd your maidâyou have only one maid, I thinkâcan confirm that statement?â

âNo, it was Hildaâs afternoon out.â

âI see.â

âSo, unfortunately, you will have to take my word for it,â said Mrs. Lestrange pleasantly.

âYou seriously declare that you were at home all the afternoon?â

âYou said between six and seven, Inspector. I was out for a walk early in the afternoon. I returned some time before five oâclock.â

âThen if a ladyâMiss Hartnell, for instanceâwere to declare that she came here about six oâclock, rang the bell, but could make no one hear and was compelled to go away againâyouâd say she was mistaken, eh?â

âOh, no,â Mrs. Lestrange shook her head.

âButââ

âIf your maid is in, she can say not at home. If one is alone and does not happen to want to see callersâwell, the only thing to do is to let them ring.â

Inspector Slack looked slightly baffled.

âElderly women bore me dreadfully,â said Mrs. Lestrange. âAnd Miss Hartnell is particularly boring. She must have rung at least half a dozen times before she went away.â

She smiled sweetly at Inspector Slack.

The Inspector shifted his ground.

âThen if anyone were to say theyâd seen you out and about thenââ

âOh! but they didnât, did they?â She was quick to sense his weak point. âNo one saw me out, because I was in, you see.â

âQuite so, madam.â

The Inspector hitched his chair a little nearer.

âNow I understand, Mrs. Lestrange, that you paid a visit to Colonel Protheroe at Old Hall the night before his death.â

Mrs. Lestrange said calmly: âThat is so.â

âCan you indicate to me the nature of that interview?â

âIt concerned a private matter, Inspector.â

âIâm afraid I must ask you tell me the nature of that private matter.â

âI shall not tell you anything of the kind. I will only assure you that nothing which was said at that interview could possibly have any bearing upon the crime.â

âI donât think you are the best judge of that.â

âAt any rate, you will have to take my word for it, Inspector.â

âIn fact, I have to take your word about everything.â

âIt does seem rather like it,â she agreed, still with the same smiling calm.

Inspector Slack grew very red.

âThis is a serious matter, Mrs. Lestrange. I want the truthââ He banged his fist down on a table. âAnd I mean to get it.â

Mrs. Lestrange said nothing at all.

âDonât you see, madam, that youâre putting yourself in a very fishy position?â

Still Mrs. Lestrange said nothing.

âYouâll be required to give evidence at the inquest.â

âYes.â

Just the monosyllable. Unemphatic, uninterested. The Inspector altered his tactics.

âYou were acquainted with Colonel Protheroe?â

âYes, I was acquainted with him.â

âWell acquainted?â

There was a pause before she said:

âI had not seen him for several years.â

âYou were acquainted with Mrs. Protheroe?â

âNo.â

âYouâll excuse me, but it was a very unusual time to make a call.â

âNot from my point of view.â

âWhat do you mean by that?â

âI wanted to see Colonel Protheroe alone. I did not want to see Mrs. Protheroe or Miss Protheroe. I considered this the best way of accomplishing my object.â

âWhy didnât you want to see Mrs. or Miss Protheroe?â

âThat, Inspector, is my business.â

âThen you refuse to say more?â

âAbsolutely.â

Inspector Slack rose.

âYouâll be putting yourself in a nasty position, madam, if youâre not careful. All this looks badâit looks very bad.â

She laughed. I could have told Inspector Slack that this was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened.

âWell,â he said, extricating himself with dignity, âdonât say I havenât warned you, thatâs all. Good afternoon, madam, and mind you weâre going to get at the truth.â

He departed. Mrs. Lestrange rose and held out her hand.

âI am going to send you awayâyes, it is better so. You see, it is too late for advice now. I have chosen my part.â

She repeated in a rather forlorn voice:

âI have chosen my part.â

Sixteen

As I went out I ran into Haydock on the doorstep. He glanced sharply after Slack, who was just passing through the gate, and demanded: âHas he been questioning her?â

âYes.â

âHeâs been civil, I hope?â

Civility, to my mind, is an art which Inspector Slack has never learnt, but I presumed that according to his own lights, civil he had been, and anyway, I didnât want to upset Haydock any further. He was looking worried and upset as it was. So I said he had been quite civil.

Haydock nodded and passed on into the house, and I went on down the village street, where I soon caught up to the inspector. I fancy that he was walking slowly on purpose. Much as he dislikes me, he is not the man to let dislike stand in the way of acquiring any useful information.

âDo you know anything about the lady?â he asked me point blank.

I said I knew nothing whatever.

âSheâs never said anything about why she came here to live?â

âNo.â

âYet you go and see her?â

âIt is one of my duties to call on my parishioners,â I replied, evading to remark that I had been sent for.

âHâm, I suppose it is.â He was silent for a minute or two and then, unable to resist discussing his recent failure, he went on: âFishy business, it looks to me.â

âYou think so?â

âIf you ask me, I say âblackmail.â Seems funny, when you think of what Colonel Protheroe was always supposed to be. But there, you never can tell. He wouldnât be the first churchwarden whoâd led a double life.â

Faint remembrances of Miss Marpleâs remarks on the same subject floated through my mind.

âYou really think thatâs likely?â

âWell, it fits the facts, sir. Why did a smart, well-dressed lady come down to this quiet little hole? Why did she go and see him at that funny time of day? Why did she avoid seeing Mrs. and Miss Protheroe? Yes, it all hangs together. Awkward for her to admitâblackmailâs a punishable offence. But weâll get the truth out of her. For all we know it may have a very important bearing on the case. If Colonel Protheroe had some guilty secret in his lifeâsomething disgracefulâwell, you can see for yourself what a field it opens up.â

I suppose it did.

âIâve been trying to get the butler to talk. He might have overheard some of the conversation between Colonel Protheroe and Lestrange. Butlers do sometimes. But he swears he hasnât the least idea of what the conversation was about. By the way, he got the sack through it. The Colonel went for him, being angry at his having let her in. The butler retorted by giving notice. Says he didnât like the place anyway and had been thinking of leaving for some time.â

âReally.â

âSo that gives us another person who had a grudge against the Colonel.â

âYou donât seriously suspect the manâwhatâs his name, by the way?â

âHis nameâs Reeves, and I donât say I do suspect him. What I say is, you never know. I donât like that soapy, oily manner of his.â

I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slackâs manner.

âIâm going to question the chauffeur now.â

âPerhaps, then,â I said, âyouâll give me a lift in your car. I want a short interview with Mrs. Protheroe.â

âWhat about?â

âThe funeral arrangements.â

âOh!â Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. âThe inquestâs tomorrow, Saturday.â

âJust so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.â

Inspector Slack seemed to be a little ashamed of himself for his brusqueness. He held out an olive branch in the shape of an invitation to be present at the interview with the chauffeur, Manning.

Manning was a nice lad, not more than twenty-five or -six years of age. He was inclined to be awed by the Inspector.

âNow, then, my lad,â said Slack, âI want a little information from you.â

âYes, sir,â stammered the chauffeur. âCertainly, sir.â

If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been more alarmed.

âYou took your master to the village yesterday?â

âYes, sir.â

âWhat time was that?â

âFive thirty.â

âMrs. Protheroe went too?â

âYes, sir.â

âYou went straight to the village?â

âYes, sir.â

âYou didnât stop anywhere on the way?â

âNo, sir.â

âWhat did you do when you got there?â

âThe Colonel got out and told me he wouldnât want the car again. Heâd walk home. Mrs. Protheroe had some shopping to do. The parcels were put in the car. Then she said that was all, and I drove home.â

âLeaving her in the village?â

âYes, sir.â

âWhat time was that?â

âA quarter past six, sir. A quarter past exactly.â

âWhere did you leave her?â

âBy the church, sir.â

âHad the Colonel mentioned at all where he was going?â

âHe said something about having to see the vet â¦ something to do with one of the horses.â

âI see. And you drove straight back here?â

âYes, sir.â

âThere are two entrances to Old Hall, by the South Lodge and by the North Lodge. I take it that going to the village you would go by the South Lodge?â

âYes, sir, always.â

âAnd you came back the same way?â

âYes, sir.â

âHâm. I think thatâs all. Ah! Hereâs Miss Protheroe.â

Lettice drifted towards us.

âI want the Fiat, Manning,â she said. âStart her for me, will you?â

âVery good, miss.â

He went towards a two-seater and lifted the bonnet.

âJust a minute, Miss Protheroe,â said Slack. âItâs necessary that I should have a record of everybodyâs movements yesterday afternoon. No offence meant.â

Lettice stared at him.

âI never know the time of anything,â she said.

âI understand you went out soon after lunch yesterday?â

She nodded.

âWhere to, please?â

âTo play tennis.â

âWho with?â

âThe Hartley Napiers.â

âAt Much Benham?â

âYes.â

âAnd you returned?â

âI donât know. I tell you I never know these things.â

âYou returned,â I said, âabout seven thirty.â

âThatâs right,â said Lettice. âIn the middle of the shemozzle. Anne having fits and Griselda supporting her.â

âThank you, miss,â said the Inspector. âThatâs all I want to know.â

âHow queer,â said Lettice. âIt seems so uninteresting.â

She moved towards the Fiat.

The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

âA bit wanting?â he suggested.

âNot in the least,â I said. âBut she likes to be thought so.â

âWell, Iâm off to question the maids now.â

One cannot really like Slack, but one can admire his energy.

We parted company and I inquired of Reeves if I could see Mrs. Protheroe. âShe is lying down, sir, at the moment.â

âThen Iâd better not disturb her.â

âPerhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs. Protheroe is anxious to see you. She was saying as much at luncheon.â

He showed me into the drawing room, switching on the electric lights since the blinds were down.

âA very sad business all this,â I said.

âYes, sir.â His voice was cold and respectful.

I looked at him. What feelings were at work under that impassive demeanour. Were there things that he knew and could have told us? There is nothing so inhuman as the mask of the good servant.

âIs there anything more, sir?â

Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expression?

âThereâs nothing more,â I said.

I had a very short time to wait before Anne Protheroe came to me. We discussed and settled a few arrangements and then:

âWhat a wonderfully kind man Dr. Haydock is!â she exclaimed.

âHaydock is the best fellow I know.â

âHe has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesnât he?â

It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned the idea over in my mind.

âI donât think Iâve ever noticed it,â I said at last.

âI never have, until today.â

âOneâs own troubles sharpen oneâs eyes sometimes,â I said.

âThatâs very true.â She paused and then said:

âMr. Clement, thereâs one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my husband were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didnât hear the shot?â

âThey have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.â

âBut the 6:20 on the note?â

âWas possibly added by a different handâthe murdererâs.â

Her cheek paled.

âIt didnât strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?â

âHow horrible!â

âNone of it looked like his handwriting.â

There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegible scrawl, not so precise as Protheroeâs writing usually was.

âYou are sure they donât still suspect Lawrence?â

âI think he is definitely cleared.â

âBut, Mr. Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but I donât think he had any real enemies. Notânot that kind of enemy.â

I shook my head. âItâs a mystery.â

I thought wonderingly of Miss Marpleâs seven suspects. Who could they be?

After I took leave of Anne, I proceeded to put a certain plan of mine into action.

I returned from Old Hall by way of the private path. When I reached the stile, I retraced my steps, and choosing a place where I fancied the undergrowth showed signs of being disturbed, I turned aside from the path and forced my way through the bushes. The wood was a thick one, with a good deal of tangled undergrowth. My progress was not very fast, and I suddenly became aware that someone else was moving amongst the bushes not very far from me. As I paused irresolutely, Lawrence Redding came into sight. He was carrying a large stone.

I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

âNo,â he said, âitâs not a clue, itâs a peace offering.â

âA peace offering?â

âWell, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for calling on your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing she likes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens she makes.â

âQuite true,â I said. âBut what do you want with the old lady?â

âJust this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I donât mean anything necessarily connected with the crimeâthat she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outrÃ© or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldnât think worthwhile mentioning to the police.â

âItâs possible, I suppose.â

âItâs worth trying anyhow. Clement, Iâm going to get to the bottom of this business. For Anneâs sake, if nobodyâs else. And I havenât any too much confidence in Slackâheâs a zealous fellow, but zeal canât really take the place of brains.â

âI see,â I said, âthat you are that favourite character of fiction, the amateur detective. I donât know that they really hold their own with the professional in real life.â

He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.

âWhat are you doing in the wood, padre?â

I had the grace to blush.

âJust the same as I am doing, I dare swear. Weâve got the same idea, havenât we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along the lane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third wayâis there a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushes being disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicarage garden.â

âThat was just my idea,â I admitted.

âI hadnât really got down to the job, though,â continued Lawrence. âBecause it occurred to me that Iâd like to see Miss Marple first, to make quite sure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we were in the studio.â

I shook my head.

âShe was quite positive that nobody did.â

âYes, nobody whom she would call anybodyâsounds mad, but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcherâs boyâsomeone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldnât think of mentioning it.â

âYouâve been reading G. K. Chesterton,â I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.

âBut donât you think thereâs just possibly something in the idea?â

âWell, I suppose there might be,â I admitted.

Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marpleâs. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.

âYou see,â murmured Lawrence, âshe sees everybody.â

She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrenceâs immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.

âItâs very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.â

Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.

âYes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.â

âYou are sure, Miss Marple?â

âQuite sure.â

âDid you see anyone go by the path into the wood that afternoon?â I asked. âOr come from it?â

âOh, yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went that wayâitâs the nearest way to the barrow for them. That was a little after two oâclock. And Dr. Stone returned that wayâas you know, Mr. Redding, since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.â

âBy the way,â I said. âThat shotâthe one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.â

I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.

âYes,â he said, frowning. âI believe I did hear some shots. Werenât there one or two shots?â

âI only heard one,â said Miss Marple.

âItâs only the vaguest impression in my mind,â said Lawrence. âCurse it all, I wish I could remember. If only Iâd known. You see, I was so completely taken up withâwithââ

He paused, embarrassed.

I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple, with a touch of prudishness, changed the subject.

âInspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard the shot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before. Iâve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the impressionâwhich is growing stronger the more I think about itâthat it was after.â

âThen that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,â said Lawrence, with a sigh. âNot that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.â

âAh!â said Miss Marple. âBut I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?â

This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.

âI really canât say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened andâone would have noticed it less there.â

For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.

âI must ask Anne,â said Lawrence. âShe may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.â

âPerhaps the Vicar knows,â said Miss Marple.

Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.

I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.

âWhat does Inspector Slack think?â asked Miss Marple.

âHeâs done his best to bully the butlerâbut apparently the butler wasnât curious enough to listen at the door. So there it isâno one knows.â

âI expect someone overheard something, though, donât you?â said Miss Marple. âI mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Redding may find out something.â

âBut Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.â

âI didnât mean Anne Protheroe,â said Miss Marple. âI meant the women servants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice looking young manâyouâll excuse me, Mr. Reddingâand one who has been unjustly suspectedâoh! Iâm sure theyâd tell him at once.â

âIâll go and have a try this evening,â said Lawrence with vigour. âThanks for the hint, Miss Marple. Iâll go afterâwell, after a little job the Vicar and I are going to do.â

It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it. I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.

First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainly looked as though someone had left the path on the right-hand side. Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail and found it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. He might have been wrong.

It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any sign of broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot that Lawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the afternoon.

We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Again we came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs were very slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was more promising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage. Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly up to the wall. The wall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles on the top. If anyone had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces of their passage.

We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came to our ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through a thick tangle of shrubsâand came face to face with Inspector Slack.

âSo itâs you,â he said. âAnd Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you two gentlemen are doing?â

Slightly crestfallen, we explained.

âQuite so,â said the Inspector. âNot being the fools weâre usually thought to be, I had the same idea myself. Iâve been here over an hour. Would you like to know something?â

âYes,â I said meekly.

âWhoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didnât come this way to do it! Thereâs not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. Thereâs no other way he could have come.â

âImpossible,â I cried.

âWhy impossible? Your door stands open. Anyoneâs only got to walk in. They canât be seen from the kitchen. They know youâre safely out of the way, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at a tennis party. Simple as A B C. And they donât need to go or come through the village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from it you can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way you choose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at that particular minute, itâs all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbing over walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridleyâs house do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, thatâs the way he came.â

It really seemed as though he must be right.

Seventeen

Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the clock.

âWell, sir,â he greeted me. âIâve traced that telephone call that you received.â

âIndeed?â I said eagerly.

âItâs rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old Hall. Now that lodge is empty, the lodgekeepers have been pensioned off and the new lodgekeepers arenât in yet. The place was empty and convenientâa window at the back was open. No fingerprints on the instrument itselfâit had been wiped clear. Thatâs suggestive.â

âHow do you mean?â

âI mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get you out of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance. If it had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints wouldnât have been wiped off so carefully.â

âNo. I see that.â

âIt also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall and its surroundings. It wasnât Mrs. Protheroe who put that call through. Iâve accounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There are half a dozen other servants who can swear that she was at home till five thirty. Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and her to the village. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one of the horses. Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady was right.â

âShe usually is,â I said mildly.

âAnd Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5:30.â

âQuite so,â I said. âMy nephew was there too.â

âThat disposes of her. The maid seems all rightâa bit hysterical and upset, but what can you expect? Of course, Iâve got my eye on the butlerâwhat with giving notice and all. But I donât think he knows anything about it.â

âYour inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector.â

âThey do and they do not, sir. Thereâs one very queer thing has turned upâquite unexpectedly, I may say.â

âYes?â

âYou remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the telephone?â

âYes?â I said.

âWell, we traced the call just to calm herâand where on this earth do you think it was put through from?â

âA call office?â I hazarded.

âNo, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Reddingâs cottage.â

âWhat?â I exclaimed, surprised.

âYes. A bit odd, isnât it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At that time, 6:30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? Thatâs two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think thereâs some connection between them. Iâll eat my hat if they werenât both put through by the same person.â

âBut with what object?â

âWell, thatâs what weâve got to find out. There seems no particular point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see the significance? Mr. Reddingâs house used to telephone from. Mr. Reddingâs pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding.â

âIt would be more to the point to have put through the first call from his house,â I objected.

âAh, but Iâve been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from his cottage heâd go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The murderer is someone who didnât know about the quarrel and that Mr. Redding wasnât going up to Old Hall any more.â

I reflected a moment to let the Inspectorâs points sink into my brain. They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.

âWere there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Reddingâs cottage?â I asked.

âThere were not,â said the Inspector bitterly. âThat dratted old woman who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday morning.â He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. âSheâs a stupid old fool, anyway. Canât remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have been there on the morning of the crime, or it might not. âShe couldnât say, sheâs sure.â Theyâre all alike!

âJust as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone,â he went on. âI must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went up to that moundâor barrowâor whatever you call it, about half past two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back alone, and she came later. He says he didnât hear any shot, but admits heâs absentminded. But it all bears out what we think.â

âOnly,â I said, âyou havenât caught the murderer.â

âHâm,â said the Inspector. âIt was a womanâs voice you heard through the telephone. It was in all probability a womanâs voice Mrs. Price Ridley heard. If only that shot hadnât come hard on the close of the telephone callâwell, Iâd know where to look.â

âWhere?â

âAh! Thatâs just what itâs best not to say, sir.â

Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine old vintage port. Eleven oâclock in the morning is not the usual time for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamish about such things.

When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.

âI donât suppose it matters with you, sir,â he said. âYouâll keep it to yourself? No letting it get round the parish.â

I reassured him.

âSeeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as though you have a right to know.â

âJust what I feel myself,â I said.

âWell, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?â

âMrs. Lestrange,â I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.

The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.

âNot so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady Iâve got my eye on. You remember what I told youâblackmail.â

âHardly a reason for murder. Wouldnât it be a case of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true, which I donât for a minute admit.â

The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.

âAh! Sheâs the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look here, sir. Suppose sheâs successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here and tries it on again. But, in the meantime, things have changed. The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmailânames are not allowed to be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says heâll have the law on her. Sheâs in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence for blackmail. The bootâs on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick.â

I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissableâthe personality of Mrs. Lestrange.

âI donât agree with you, Inspector,â I said. âMrs. Lestrange doesnât seem to me to be a potential blackmailer. Sheâsâwell, itâs an old-fashioned word, but sheâs aâlady.â

He threw me a pitying glance.

âAh! well, sir,â he said tolerantly, âyouâre a clergyman. You donât know half of what goes on. Lady indeed! Youâd be surprised if you knew some of the things I know.â

âIâm not referring to mere social position. Anyway, I should imagine Mrs. Lestrange to be a dÃ©classÃ©e. What I mean is a question ofâpersonal refinement.â

âYou donât see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a manâbut Iâm a police officer, too. They canât get over me with their personal refinement. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into you without turning a hair.â

Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs. Lestrange guilty of murder much more easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.

âBut, of course, she canât have been telephoning to the old lady next door and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,â continued the Inspector.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg ferociously.

âGot it,â he exclaimed. âThatâs the point of the telephone call. Kind of alibi. Knew weâd connect it with the first one. Iâm going to look into this. She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for her. Heâd never think of connecting it with the murder.â

The Inspector hurried off.

âMiss Marple wants to see you,â said Griselda, putting her head in. âShe sent over a very incoherent noteâall spidery and underlined. I couldnât read most of it. Apparently she canât leave home herself. Hurry up and go across and see her and find out what it is. Iâve got my old women coming in two minutes or Iâd come myself. I do hate old womenâthey tell you about their bad legs and sometimes insist on showing them to you. What luck that the inquest is this afternoon! You wonât have to go and watch the Boysâ Club Cricket Match.â

I hurried off, considerably exercised in my mind as to the reason for this summons.

I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She was very pink and slightly incoherent.

âMy nephew,â she explained. âMy nephew, Raymond West, the author. He is coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself. You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course, have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do they not? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the houseâand a siphon.â

âIf I can do anythingââ I began.

âOh! How very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of time really. He brings his own pipe and tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad because it saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy. But rather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get out of the curtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well very early every morning. Raymond gets up very lateâI think writers often do. He writes very clever books, I believe, though people are not really nearly so unpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so little of life, donât you think?â

âWould you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?â I asked, still unable to gather why I had been summoned.

âOh! No, thank you,â said Miss Marple. âItâs very kind of you,â she added.

âThere wasâerâsomething you wanted to see me about, I think,â I suggested desperately.

âOh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my head.â She broke off and called to her maid. âEmilyâEmily. Not those sheets. The frilled ones with the monogram, and donât put them too near the fire.â

She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.

âItâs just rather a curious thing that happened last night,â she explained. âI thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesnât seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last nightâwondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what do you think I saw?â

I looked, inquiring.

âGladys Cram,â said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. âAs I live, going into the wood with a suitcase.â

âA suitcase?â

âIsnât it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the wood at twelve oâclock at night?

âYou see,â said Miss Marple, âI dare say it has nothing to do with the murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we must take notice of Peculiar Things.â

âPerfectly amazing,â I said. âWas she going toâerâsleep in the barrow by any chance?â

âShe didnât, at any rate,â said Miss Marple. âBecause quite a short time afterwards she came back, and she hadnât got the suitcase with her.â

Eighteen

The inquest was held that afternoon (Saturday) at two oâclock at the Blue Boar. The local excitement was, I need hardly say, tremendous. There had been no murder in St. Mary Mead for at least fifteen years. And to have someone like Colonel Protheroe murdered actually in the Vicarage study is such a feast of sensation as rarely falls to the lot of a village population.

Various comments floated to my ears which I was probably not meant to hear.

âThereâs Vicar. Looks pale, donât he? I wonder if he had a hand in it. âTwas done at Vicarage, after all.â âHow can you, Mary Adams? And him visiting Henry Abbott at the time.â âOh! But they do say him and the Colonel had words. Thereâs Mary Hill. Giving herself airs, she is, on account of being in service there. Hush, hereâs coroner.â

The coroner was Dr. Roberts of our adjoining town of Much Benham. He cleared his throat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked important.

To recapitulate all the evidence would be merely tiresome. Lawrence Redding gave evidence of finding the body, and identified the pistol as belonging to him. To the best of his belief he had seen it on the Tuesday, two days previously. It was kept on a shelf in his cottage, and the door of the cottage was habitually unlocked.

Mrs. Protheroe gave evidence that she had last seen her husband at about a quarter to six when they separated in the village street. She agreed to call for him at the Vicarage later. She had gone to the Vicarage about a quarter past six, by way of the back lane and the garden gate. She had heard no voices in the study and had imagined that the room was empty, but her husband might have been sitting at the writing table, in which case she would not have seen him. As far as she knew, he had been in his usual health and spirits. She knew of no enemy who might have had a grudge against him.

I gave evidence next, told of my appointment with Protheroe and my summons to the Abbotts.â I described how I had found the body and my summoning of Dr. Haydock.

âHow many people, Mr. Clement, were aware that Colonel Protheroe was coming to see you that evening?â

âA good many, I should imagine. My wife knew, and my nephew, and Colonel Protheroe himself alluded to the fact that morning when I met him in the village. I should think several people might have overheard him, as, being slightly deaf, he spoke in a loud voice.â

âIt was, then, a matter of common knowledge? Anyone might know?â

I agreed.

Haydock followed. He was an important witness. He described carefully and technically the appearance of the body and the exact injuries. It was his opinion that the deceased had been shot at approximately 6:20 to 6:30âcertainly not later than 6:35. That was the outside limit. He was positive and emphatic on that point. There was no question of suicide, the wound could not have been self-inflicted.

Inspector Slackâs evidence was discreet and abridged. He described his summons and the circumstances under which he had found the body. The unfinished letter was produced and the time on itâ6:20ânoted. Also the clock. It was tacitly assumed that the time of death was 6:22. The police were giving nothing away. Anne Protheroe told me afterwards that she had been told to suggest a slightly earlier period of time than 6:20 for her visit.

Our maid, Mary, was the next witness, and proved a somewhat truculent one. She hadnât heard anything, and didnât want to hear anything. It wasnât as though gentlemen who came to see the Vicar usually got shot. They didnât. Sheâd got her own jobs to look after. Colonel Protheroe had arrived at a quarter past six exactly. No, she didnât look at the clock. She heard the church chime after she had shown him into the study. She didnât hear any shot. If there had been a shot sheâd have heard it. Well, of course, she knew there must have been a shot, since the gentleman was found shotâbut there it was. She hadnât heard it.

The coroner did not press the point. I realized that he and Colonel Melchett were working in agreement.

Mrs. Lestrange had been subpoenaed to give evidence, but a medical certificate, signed by Dr. Haydock, was produced saying she was too ill to attend.

There was only one other witness, a somewhat doddering old woman. The one who, in Slackâs phrase, âdid forâ Lawrence Redding.

Mrs. Archer was shown the pistol and recognized it as the one she had seen in Mr. Reddingâs sitting room âover against the bookcase, he kept it, lying about.â She had last seen it on the day of the murder. Yesâin answer to a further questionâshe was quite sure it was there at lunchtime on Thursdayâquarter to one when she left.

I remembered what the Inspector had told me, and I was mildly surprised. However vague she might have been when he questioned her, she was quite positive about it now.

The coroner summed up in a negative manner, but with a good deal of firmness. The verdict was given almost immediately:

Murder by Person or Persons unknown.

As I left the room I was aware of a small army of young men with bright, alert faces and a kind of superficial resemblance to each other. Several of them were already known to me by sight as having haunted the Vicarage the last few days. Seeking to escape, I plunged back into the Blue Boar and was lucky enough to run straight into the archaeologist, Dr. Stone. I clutched at him without ceremony.

âJournalists,â I said briefly and expressively. âIf you could deliver me from their clutches?â

âWhy, certainly, Mr. Clement. Come upstairs with me.â

He led the way up the narrow staircase and into his sitting room, where Miss Cram was sitting rattling the keys of a typewriter with a practised touch. She greeted me with a broad smile of welcome and seized the opportunity to stop work.

âAwful, isnât it?â she said. âNot knowing who did it, I mean. Not but that Iâm disappointed in an inquest. Tame, thatâs what I call it. Nothing what you might call spicy from beginning to end.â

âYou were there, then, Miss Cram?â

âI was there all right. Fancy your not seeing me. Didnât you see me? I feel a bit hurt about that. Yes, I do. A gentleman, even if he is a clergyman, ought to have eyes in his head.â

âWere you present also?â I asked Dr. Stone, in an effort to escape from this playful badinage. Young women like Miss Cram always make me feel awkward.

âNo, Iâm afraid I feel very little interest in such things. I am a man very wrapped up in his own hobby.â

âIt must be a very interesting hobby,â I said.

âYou know something of it, perhaps?â

I was obliged to confess that I knew next to nothing.

Dr. Stone was not the kind of man whom a confession of ignorance daunts. The result was exactly the same as though I had said that the excavation of barrows was my only relaxation. He surged and eddied into speech. Long barrows, round barrows, stone age, bronze age, paleolithic, neolithic kistvaens and cromlechs, it burst forth in a torrent. I had little to do save nod my head and look intelligentâand that last is perhaps over optimistic. Dr. Stone boomed on. He was a little man. His head was round and bald, his face was round and rosy, and he beamed at you through very strong glasses. I have never known a man so enthusiastic on so little encouragement. He went into every argument for and against his own pet theoryâwhich, by the way, I quite failed to grasp!

He detailed at great length his difference of opinion with Colonel Protheroe.

âAn opinionated boor,â he said with heat. âYes, yes, I know he is dead, and one should speak no ill of the dead. But death does not alter facts. An opinionated boor describes him exactly. Because he had read a few books, he set himself up as an authorityâagainst a man who has made a lifelong study of the subject. My whole life, Mr. Clement, has been given up to this work. My whole lifeââ

He was spluttering with excitement. Gladys Cram brought him back to earth with a terse sentence.

âYouâll miss your train if you donât look out,â she observed.

âOh!â The little man stopped in mid speech and dragged a watch from his pocket. âBless my soul. Quarter to? Impossible.â

âOnce you start talking you never remember the time. What youâd do without me to look after you, I really donât know.â

âQuite right, my dear, quite right.â He patted her affectionately on the shoulder. âThis is a wonderful girl, Mr. Clement. Never forgets anything. I consider myself extremely lucky to have found her.â

âOh! Go on, Dr. Stone,â said the lady. âYou spoil me, you do.â

I could not help feeling that I should be in a material position to add my support to the second school of thoughtâthat which foresees lawful matrimony as the future of Dr. Stone and Miss Cram. I imagined that in her own way Miss Cram was rather a clever young woman.

âYouâd better be getting along,â said Miss Cram.

âYes, yes, so I must.â

He vanished into the room next door and returned carrying a suitcase.

âYou are leaving?â I asked in some surprise.

âJust running up to town for a couple of days,â he explained. âMy old mother to see tomorrow, some business with my lawyers on Monday. On Tuesday I shall return. By the way, I suppose that Colonel Protheroeâs death will make no difference to our arrangements. As regards the barrow, I mean. Mrs. Protheroe will have no objection to our continuing the work?â

âI should not think so.â

As he spoke, I wondered who actually would be in authority at Old Hall. It was just possible that Protheroe might have left it to Lettice. I felt that it would be interesting to know the contents of Protheroeâs will.

âCauses a lot of trouble in a family, a death does,â remarked Miss Cram, with a kind of gloomy relish. âYou wouldnât believe what a nasty spirit there sometimes is.â

âWell, I must really be going.â Dr. Stone made ineffectual attempts to control the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to his rescue. He protested.

âDonât troubleâdonât trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless there will be somebody downstairs.â

But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspect that they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was getting on, so we set out together to the station, Dr. Stone carrying the suitcase, and I holding the rug and umbrella.

Dr. Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurried along.

âReally too good of youâdidnât meanâto trouble you â¦ Hope we shanât missâthe trainâGladys is a good girlâreally a wonderful girlâa very sweet natureânot too happy at home, Iâm afraidâabsolutelyâthe heart of a childâheart of a child. I do assure you, in spite ofâdifference in our agesâfind a lot in commonâ¦.â

We saw Lawrence Reddingâs cottage just as we turned off to the station. It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observed two young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and a couple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.

âNice fellow, young Redding,â I remarked, to see what my companion would say.

He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say anything, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.

âDangerous,â he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.

âDangerous?â

âMost dangerous. Innocent girlsâknow no betterâtaken in by a fellow like thatâalways hanging round women â¦ No good.â

From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had not passed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.

âGoodness,â ejaculated Dr. Stone. âThe train!â

We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint. A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was just coming in.

At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisite young man, and I recognized Miss Marpleâs nephew just arriving. He is, I think, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides himself on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt that vulgar contact is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. I apologized hastily and we passed in. Dr. Stone climbed on the train and I handed up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.

I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, but our local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just setting out for the village. I walked beside him.

âClose shave that,â he observed. âWell, how did the inquest go, Mr. Clement?â

I gave him the verdict.

âOh! So thatâs what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Whereâs Dr. Stone off to?â

I repeated what he had told me.

âLucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr. Clement, itâs a crying shame. Disgraceful, thatâs what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesdayâno, Thursdayâyes, Thursday it wasâI remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the companyâand the murder put it out of my headâyes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6:50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I donât mind. But if the train doesnât get in till twenty past seven, well, you canât get home before half past. What I say is, why call it the 6:50?â

âQuite so,â I said, and wishing to escape from the monologue I broke away with the excuse that I had something to say to Lawrence Redding whom I saw approaching us on the other side of the road.

Nineteen

âVery glad to have met you,â said Lawrence. âCome to my place.â

We turned in at the little rustic gate, went up the path, and he drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.

âYou keep the door locked now,â I observed.

âYes.â He laughed rather bitterly. âCase of stable door when the steed is gone, eh? It is rather like that. You know, padre,â he held the door open and I passed inside, âthereâs something about all this business that I donât like. Itâs too much ofâhow shall I put itâan inside job. Someone knew about that pistol of mine. That means that the murderer, whoever he was, must have actually been in this houseâperhaps even had a drink with me.â

âNot necessarily,â I objected. âThe whole village of St. Mary Mead probably knows exactly where you keep your toothbrush and what kind of tooth powder you use.â

âBut why should it interest them?â

âI donât know,â I said, âbut it does. If you change your shaving cream it will be a topic of conversation.â

âThey must be very hard up for news.â

âThey are. Nothing exciting ever happens here.â

âWell, it has nowâwith a vengeance.â

I agreed.

âAnd who tells them all these things anyway? Shaving cream and things like that?â

âProbably old Mrs. Archer.â

âThat old crone? Sheâs practically a half-wit, as far as I can make out.â

âThatâs merely the camouflage of the poor,â I explained. âThey take refuge behind a mask of stupidity. Youâll probably find that the old lady has all her wits about her. By the way, she seems very certain now that the pistol was in its proper place midday Thursday. Whatâs made her so positive all of a sudden?â

âI havenât the least idea.â

âDo you think sheâs right?â

âThere again I havenât the least idea. I donât go round taking an inventory of my possessions every day.â

I looked round the small living room. Every shelf and table was littered with miscellaneous articles. Lawrence lived in the midst of an artistic disarray that would have driven me quite mad.

âItâs a bit of a job finding things sometimes,â he said, observing my glance. âOn the other hand, everything is handyânot tucked away.â

âNothing is tucked away, certainly,â I agreed. âIt might perhaps have been better if the pistol had been.â

âDo you know I rather expected the coroner to say something of the sort. Coroners are such asses. I expected to be censured or whatever they call it.â

âBy the way,â I asked, âwas it loaded?â

Lawrence shook his head.

âIâm not quite so careless as that. It was unloaded, but there was a box of cartridges beside it.â

âIt was apparently loaded in all six chambers and one shot had been fired.â

Lawrence nodded.

âAnd whose hand fired it? Itâs all very well, sir, but unless the real murderer is discovered I shall be suspected of the crime to the day of my death.â

âDonât say that, my boy.â

âBut I do say it.â

He became silent, frowning to himself. He roused himself at last and said:

âBut let me tell you how I got on last night. You know, old Miss Marple knows a thing or two.â

âShe is, I believe, rather unpopular on that account.â

Lawrence proceeded to recount his story.

He had, following Miss Marpleâs advice, gone up to Old Hall. There, with Anneâs assistance, he had had an interview with the parlourmaid. Anne had said simply:

âMr. Redding wants to ask you a few questions, Rose.â

Then she had left the room.

Lawrence had felt somewhat nervous. Rose, a pretty girl of twenty-five, gazed at him with a limpid gaze which he found rather disconcerting.

âItâsâitâs about Colonel Protheroeâs death.â

âYes, sir.â

âIâm very anxious, you see, to get at the truth.â

âYes, sir.â

âI feel that there may beâthat someone mightâthatâthat there might be some incidentââ

At this point Lawrence felt that he was not covering himself with glory, and heartily cursed Miss Marple and her suggestions.

âI wondered if you could help me?â

âYes, sir?â

Roseâs demeanour was still that of the perfect servant, polite, anxious to assist, and completely uninterested.

âDash it all,â said Lawrence, âhavenât you talked the thing over in the servantsâ hall?â

This method of attack flustered Rose slightly. Her perfect poise was shaken.

âIn the servantsâ hall, sir?â

âOr the housekeeperâs room, or the bootboyâs dugout, or wherever you do talk? There must be some place.â

Rose displayed a very faint disposition to giggle, and Lawrence felt encouraged.

âLook here, Rose, youâre an awfully nice girl. Iâm sure you must understand what Iâm feeling like. I donât want to be hanged. I didnât murder your master, but a lot of people think I did. Canât you help me in any way?â

I can imagine at this point that Lawrence must have looked extremely appealing. His handsome head thrown back, his Irish blue eyes appealing. Rose softened and capitulated.

âOh, sir! Iâm sureâif any of us could help in any way. None of us think you did it, sir. Indeed we donât.â

âI know, my dear girl, but thatâs not going to help me with the police.â

âThe police!â Rose tossed her head. âI can tell you, sir, we donât think much of that Inspector. Slack, he calls himself. The police indeed.â

âAll the same, the police are very powerful. Now, Rose, you say youâll do your best to help me. I canât help feeling that thereâs a lot we havenât got yet. The lady, for instance, who called to see Colonel Protheroe the night before he died.â

âMrs. Lestrange?â

âYes, Mrs. Lestrange. I canât help feeling thereâs something rather odd about that visit of hers.â

âYes, indeed, sir, thatâs what we all said.â

âYou did?â

âComing the way she did. And asking for the Colonel. And of course thereâs been a lot of talkânobody knowing anything about her down here. And Mrs. Simmons, sheâs the housekeeper, sir, she gave it as her opinion that she was a regular bad lot. But after hearing what Gladdie said, well, I didnât know what to think.â

âWhat did Gladdie say?â

âOh, nothing, sir! It was justâwe were talking, you know.â

Lawrence looked at her. He had the feeling of something kept back.

âI wonder very much what her interview with Colonel Protheroe was about.â

âYes, sir.â

âI believe you know, Rose?â

âMe? Oh, no, sir! Indeed I donât. How could I?â

âLook here, Rose. You said youâd help me. If you overheard anything, anything at allâit mightnât seem important, but anything â¦ Iâd be so awfully grateful to you. After all, anyone mightâmight chanceâjust chance to overhear something.â

âBut I didnât, sir, really, I didnât.â

âThen somebody else did,â said Lawrence acutely.

âWell, sirââ

âDo tell me, Rose.â

âI donât know what Gladdie would say, Iâm sure.â

âSheâd want you to tell me. Who is Gladdie, by the way?â

âSheâs the kitchenmaid, sir. And you see, sheâd just stepped out to speak to a friend, and she was passing the windowâthe study windowâand the master was there with the lady. And of course he did speak very loud, the master did, always. And naturally, feeling a little curiousâI meanââ

âAwfully natural,â said Lawrence, âI mean one would simply have to listen.â

âBut of course she didnât tell anyoneâexcept me. And we both thought it very odd. But Gladdie couldnât say anything, you see, because if it was known sheâd gone out to meetâaâa friendâwell, it would have meant a lot of unpleasantness with Mrs. Pratt, thatâs the cook, sir. But Iâm sure sheâd tell you anything, sir, willing.â

âWell, can I go to the kitchen and speak to her?â

Rose was horrified by the suggestion.

âOh, no, sir, that would never do! And Gladdieâs a very nervous girl anyway.â

At last the matter was settled, after a lot of discussion over difficult points. A clandestine meeting was arranged in the shrubbery.

Here, in due course, Lawrence was confronted by the nervous Gladdie who he described as more like a shivering rabbit than anything human. Ten minutes were spent in trying to put the girl at her ease, the shivering Gladys explaining that she couldnât everâthat she didnât ought, that she didnât think Rose would have given her away, that anyway she hadnât meant no harm, indeed she hadnât, and that sheâd catch it badly if Mrs. Pratt ever came to hear of it.

Lawrence reassured, cajoled, persuadedâat last Gladys consented to speak. âIf youâll be sure itâll go no further, sir.â

âOf course it wonât.â

âAnd it wonât be brought up against me in a court of law?â

âNever.â

âAnd you wonât tell the mistress?â

âNot on any account.â

âIf it were to get to Mrs. Prattâs earsââ

âIt wonât. Now tell me, Gladys.â

âIf youâre sure itâs all right?â

âOf course it is. Youâll be glad some day youâve saved me from being hanged.â

Gladys gave a little shriek.

âOh! Indeed, I wouldnât like that, sir. Well, itâs very little I heardâand that entirely by accident as you might sayââ

âI quite understand.â

âBut the master, he was evidently very angry. âAfter all these yearsââthatâs what he was sayingââyou dare to come hereââ âItâs an outrageââ I couldnât hear what the lady saidâbut after a bit he said, âI utterly refuseâutterlyââ I canât remember everythingâseemed as though they were at it hammer and tongs, she wanting him to do something and he refusing. âItâs a disgrace that you should have come down here,â thatâs one thing he said. And âYou shall not see herâI forbid itââ and that made me prick up my ears. Looked as though the lady wanted to tell Mrs. Protheroe a thing or two, and he was afraid about it. And I thought to myself, âWell, now, fancy the master. Him so particular. And maybe no beauty himself when allâs said and done. Fancy!â I said. And âMen are all alike,â I said to my friend later. Not that heâd agree. Argued, he did. But he did admit he was surprised at Colonel Protheroeâhim being a churchwarden and handing round the plate and reading the lessons on Sundays. âBut there,â I said, âthatâs very often the worst.â For thatâs what Iâve heard my mother say, many a time.â

Gladdie paused out of breath, and Lawrence tried tactfully to get back to where the conversation had started.

âDid you hear anything else?â

âWell, itâs difficult to remember exactly, sir. It was all much the same. He said once or twice, âI donât believe it.â Just like that. âWhatever Haydock says, I donât believe it.ââ

âHe said that, did he? âWhatever Haydock says?ââ

âYes. And he said it was all a plot.â

âYou didnât hear the lady speak at all?â

âOnly just at the end. She must have got up to go and come nearer the window. And I heard what she said. Made my blood run cold, it did. Iâll never forget it. âBy this time tomorrow night, you may be dead,â she said. Wicked the way she said it. As soon as I heard the news, âThere,â I said to Rose. âThere!ââ

Lawrence wondered. Principally he wondered how much of Gladysâs story was to be depended upon. True in the main, he suspected that it had been embellished and polished since the murder. In especial he doubted the accuracy of the last remark. He thought it highly possible that it owed its being to the fact of the murder.

He thanked Gladys, rewarded her suitably, reassured her as to her misdoings being made known to Mrs. Pratt, and left Old Hall with a good deal to think over.

One thing was clear, Mrs. Lestrangeâs interview with Colonel Protheroe had certainly not been a peaceful one, and it was one which he was anxious to keep from the knowledge of his wife.

I thought of Miss Marpleâs churchwarden with his separate establishment. Was this a case resembling that?

I wondered more than ever where Haydock came in. He had saved Mrs. Lestrange from having to give evidence at the inquest. He had done his best to protect her from the police.

How far would he carry that protection?

Supposing he suspected her of crimeâwould he still try and shield her?

She was a curious womanâa woman of very strong magnetic charm. I myself hated the thought of connecting her with the crime in any way.

Something in me said, âIt canât be her!â Why?

And an imp in my brain replied: âBecause sheâs a very beautiful and attractive woman. Thatâs why.â

There is, as Miss Marple would say, a lot of human nature in all of us.

Twenty

When I got back to the Vicarage I found that we were in the middle of a domestic crisis.

Griselda met me in the hall and with tears in her eyes dragged me into the drawing room. âSheâs going.â

âWhoâs going?â

âMary. Sheâs given notice.â

I really could not take the announcement in a tragic spirit.

âWell,â I said, âweâll have to get another servant.â

It seemed to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say. When one servant goes, you get another. I was at a loss to understand Griseldaâs look of reproach.

âLenâyou are absolutely heartless. You donât care.â

I didnât. In fact, I felt almost lighthearted at the prospect of no more burnt puddings and undercooked vegetables.

âIâll have to look for a girl, and find one, and train her,â continued Griselda in a voice of acute self-pity.

âIs Mary trained?â I said.

âOf course she is.â

âI suppose,â I said, âthat someone has heard her address us as sir or maâam and has immediately wrested her from us as a paragon. All I can say is, theyâll be disappointed.â

âIt isnât that,â said Griselda. âNobody else wants her. I donât see how they could. Itâs her feelings. Theyâre upset because Lettice Protheroe said she didnât dust properly.â

Griselda often comes out with surprising statements, but this seemed to me so surprising that I questioned it. It seemed to me the most unlikely thing in the world that Lettice Protheroe should go out of her way to interfere in our domestic affairs and reprove our maid for slovenly housework. It was so completely unLettice-like, and I said so.

âI donât see,â I said, âwhat our dust has to do with Lettice Protheroe.â

âNothing at all,â said my wife. âThatâs why itâs so unreasonable. I wish youâd go and talk to Mary yourself. Sheâs in the kitchen.â

I had no wish to talk to Mary on the subject, but Griselda, who is very energetic and quick, fairly pushed me through the baize door into the kitchen before I had time to rebel.

Mary was peeling potatoes at the sink.

âErâgood afternoon,â I said nervously.

Mary looked up and snorted, but made no other response.

âMrs. Clement tells me that you wish to leave us,â I said.

Mary condescended to reply to this.

âThereâs some things,â she said darkly, âas no girl can be asked to put up with.â

âWill you tell me exactly what it is that has upset you?â

âTell you that in two words, I can.â (Here, I may say, she vastly underestimated.) âPeople coming snooping round here when my backâs turned. Poking round. And what business of hers is it, how often the study is dusted or turned out? If you and the missus donât complain, itâs nobody elseâs business. If I give satisfaction to you thatâs all that matters, I say.â

Mary has never given satisfaction to me. I confess that I have a hankering after a room thoroughly dusted and tidied every morning. Maryâs practice of flicking off the more obvious deposit on the surface of low tables is to my thinking grossly inadequate. However, I realized that at the moment it was no good to go into side issues.

âHad to go to that inquest, didnât I? Standing up before twelve men, a respectable girl like me! And who knows what questions you may be asked. Iâll tell you this. Iâve never before been in a place where they had a murder in the house, and I never want to be again.â

âI hope you wonât,â I said. âOn the law of averages, I should say it was very unlikely.â

âI donât hold with the law. He was a magistrate. Many a poor fellow sent to jail for potting at a rabbitâand him with his pheasants and what not. And then, before heâs so much as decently buried, that daughter of his comes round and says I donât do my work properly.â

âDo you mean that Miss Protheroe has been here?â

âFound her here when I come back from the Blue Boar. In the study she was. And âOh!â she says. âIâm looking for my little yellow berryâa little yellow hat. I left it here the other day.â âWell,â I says, âI havenât seen no hat. It wasnât here when I done the room on Thursday morning,â I says. And âOh!â she says, âbut I dare say you wouldnât see it. You donât spend much time doing a room, do you?â And with that she draws her finger along the mantelshelf and looks at it. As though I had time on a morning like this to take off all them ornaments and put them back, with the police only unlocking the room the night before. âIf the Vicar and his lady are satisfied thatâs all that matters, I think, miss,â I said. And she laughs and goes out of the windows and says, âOh! but are you sure they are?ââ

âI see,â I said.

âAnd there it is! A girl has her feelings! Iâm sure Iâd work my fingers to the bone for you and the missus. And if she wants a new-fangled dish tried, Iâm always ready to try it.â

âIâm sure you are,â I said soothingly.

âBut she must have heard something or she wouldnât have said what she did. And if I donât give satisfaction Iâd rather go. Not that I take any notice of what Miss Protheroe says. Sheâs not loved up at the Hall, I can tell you. Never a please or a thank you, and everything scattered right and left. I wouldnât set any store by Miss Lettice Protheroe myself for all that Mr. Dennis is so set upon her. But sheâs the kind that can always twist a young gentleman round her little finger.â

During all this, Mary had been extracting eyes from potatoes with such energy that they had been flying round the kitchen like hailstones. At this moment one hit me in the eye and caused a momentary pause in the conversation.

âDonât you think,â I said, as I dabbed my eye with my handkerchief, âthat you have been rather too inclined to take offence where none is meant? You know, Mary, your mistress will be very sorry to lose you.â

âIâve nothing against the mistressâor against you, sir, for that matter.â

âWell, then, donât you think youâre being rather silly?â

Mary sniffed.

âI was a bit upset likeâafter the inquest and all. And a girl has her feelings. But I wouldnât like to cause the mistress inconvenience.â

âThen thatâs all right,â I said.

I left the kitchen to find Griselda and Dennis waiting for me in the hall. âWell?â exclaimed Griselda.

âSheâs staying,â I said, and sighed.

âLen,â said my wife, âyou have been clever.â

I felt rather inclined to disagree with her. I did not think I had been clever. It is my firm opinion that no servant could be a worse one than Mary. Any change, I consider, would have been a change for the better.

But I like to please Griselda. I detailed the heads of Maryâs grievance.

âHow like Lettice,â said Dennis. âShe couldnât have left that yellow beret of hers here on Wednesday. She was wearing it for tennis on Thursday.â

âThat seems to me highly probable,â I said.

âShe never knows where sheâs left anything,â said Dennis, with a kind of affectionate pride and admiration that I felt was entirely uncalled for. âShe loses about a dozen things every day.â

âA remarkably attractive trait,â I observed.

Any sarcasm missed Dennis.

âShe is attractive,â he said, with a deep sigh. âPeople are always proposing to herâshe told me so.â

âThey must be illicit proposals if theyâre made to her down here,â I remarked. âWe havenât got a bachelor in the place.â

âThereâs Dr. Stone,â said Griselda, her eyes dancing.

âHe asked her to come and see the barrow the other day,â I admitted.

âOf course he did,â said Griselda. âShe is attractive, Len. Even baldheaded archaeologists feel it.â

âLots of S.A.,â said Dennis sapiently.

And yet Lawrence Redding is completely untouched by Letticeâs charm. Griselda, however, explained that with the air of one who knew she was right.

âLawrence has got lots of S.A. himself. That kind always likes theâhow shall I put itâthe Quaker type. Very restrained and diffident. The kind of woman whom everybody calls cold. I think Anne is the only woman who could ever hold Lawrence. I donât think theyâll ever tire of each other. All the same, I think heâs been rather stupid in one way. Heâs rather made use of Lettice, you know. I donât think he ever dreamed she caredâheâs awfully modest in some waysâbut I have a feeling she does.â

âShe canât bear him,â said Dennis positively. âShe told me so.â

I have never seen anything like the pitying silence with which Griselda received this remark.

I went into my study. There was, to my fancy, still a rather eerie feeling in the room. I knew that I must get over this. Once give in to that feeling, and I should probably never use the study again. I walked thoughtfully over to the writing table. Here Protheroe had sat, red-faced, hearty, self-righteous, and here, in a moment of time, he had been struck down. Here, where I was standing, an enemy had stoodâ¦.

And soâno more Protheroeâ¦.

Here was the pen his fingers had held.

On the floor was a faint dark stainâthe rug had been sent to the cleaners, but the blood had soaked through.

I shivered.

âI canât use this room,â I said aloud. âI canât use it.â

Then my eye was caught by somethingâa mere speck of bright blue. I bent down. Between the floor and the desk I saw a small object. I picked it up.

I was standing staring at it in the palm of my hand when Griselda came in.

âI forgot to tell you, Len. Miss Marple wants us to go over tonight after dinner. To amuse the nephew. Sheâs afraid of his being dull. I said weâd go.â

âVery well, my dear.â

âWhat are you looking at?â

âNothing.â

I closed my hand, and looking at my wife, observed:

âIf you donât amuse Master Raymond West, my dear, he must be very hard to please.â

My wife said: âDonât be ridiculous, Len,â and turned pink.

She went out again, and I unclosed my hand.

In the palm of my hand was a blue lapis lazuli earring set in seed pearls.

It was rather an unusual jewel, and I knew very well where I had seen it last.

Twenty-one

I cannot say that I have at any time had a great admiration for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist and has made quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.

He has a tolerant affection for âAunt Jane,â whom he alludes to in her presence as a âsurvival.â

She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure he never notices it.

He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness. They discussed modern plays and from there went on to modern schemes of decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I think, susceptible to his conversation.

During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals the reiteration âburied as you are down here.â

It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:

âI suppose you consider us very much out of the things down here?â

Raymond West waved his cigarette.

âI regard St. Mary Mead,â he said authoritatively, âas a stagnant pool.â

He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance.

âThat is really not a very good simile, dear Raymond,â said Miss Marple briskly. âNothing, I believe, is so full of life under the microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool.â

âLifeâof a kind,â admitted the novelist.

âItâs all much the same kind, really, isnât it?â said Miss Marple.

âYou compare yourself to a denizen of a stagnant pond, Aunt Jane?â

âMy dear, you said something of the sort in your last book, I remember.â

No clever young man likes having his works quoted against himself. Raymond West was no exception.

âThat was entirely different,â he snapped.

âLife is, after all, very much the same everywhere,â said Miss Marple in her placid voice. âGetting born, you know, and growing upâand coming into contact with other peopleâgetting jostledâand then marriage and more babiesââ

âAnd finally death,â said Raymond West. âAnd not death with a death certificate always. Death in life.â

âTalking of death,â said Griselda. âYou know weâve had a murder here?â

Raymond West waved murder away with his cigarette.

âMurder is so crude,â he said. âI take no interest in it.â

That statement did not take me in for a moment. They say all the world loves a loverâapply that saying to murder and you have an even more infallible truth. No one can fail to be interested in a murder. Simple people like Griselda and myself can admit the fact, but anyone like Raymond West has to pretend to be boredâat any rate for the first five minutes.

Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:

âRaymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner.â

âI take a great interest in all the local news,â said Raymond hastily. He smiled benignly and tolerantly at Miss Marple.

âHave you a theory, Mr. West?â asked Griselda.

âLogically,â said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, âonly one person could have killed Protheroe.â

âYes?â said Griselda.

We hung upon his words with flattering attention.

âThe Vicar,â said Raymond, and pointed an accusing finger at me.

I gasped.

âOf course,â he reassured me, âI know you didnât do it. Life is never what it should be. But think of the dramaâthe fitnessâchurchwarden murdered in the Vicarâs study by the Vicar. Delicious!â

âAnd the motive?â I inquired.

âOh! Thatâs interesting.â He sat upâallowed his cigarette to go out. âInferiority complex, I think. Possibly too many inhibitions. I should like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after week, year after year, heâs seen the manâat vestry meetingsâat choirboysâ outingsâhanding round the bag in churchâbringing it to the altar. Always he dislikes the manâalways he chokes down his dislike. Itâs unChristian, he wonât encourage it. And so it festers underneath, and one dayââ

He made a graphic gesture.

Griselda turned to me.

âHave you ever felt like that, Len?â

âNever,â I said truthfully.

âYet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago,â remarked Miss Marple.

(That miserable Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the remark.)

âIâm afraid I was,â I said. âIt was a stupid remark to make, but really Iâd had a very trying morning with him.â

âThatâs disappointing,â said Raymond West. âBecause, of course, if your subconscious were really planning to do him in, it would never have allowed you to make that remark.â

He sighed.

âMy theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary murderâa revengeful poacher or something of that sort.â

âMiss Cram came to see me this afternoon,â said Miss Marple. âI met her in the village and I asked her if she would like to see my garden.â

âIs she fond of gardens?â asked Griselda.

âI donât think so,â said Miss Marple, with a faint twinkle. âBut it makes a very useful excuse for talk, donât you think?â

âWhat did you make of her?â asked Griselda. âI donât believe sheâs really so bad.â

âShe volunteered a lot of informationâreally a lot of information,â said Miss Marple. âAbout herself, you know, and her people. They all seem to be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old Hall for the weekend.â

âWhat?â

âYes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked herâor she suggested it to Mrs. ProtheroeâI donât quite know which way about it was. To do some secretarial work for herâthere are so many letters to cope with. It turned out rather fortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to do. What an excitement this barrow has been.â

âStone?â said Raymond. âIs that the archaeologist fellow?â

âYes, he is excavating a barrow. On the Protheroe property.â

âHeâs a good man,â said Raymond. âWonderfully keen on his job. I met him at a dinner not long ago and we had a most interesting talk. I must look him up.â

âUnfortunately,â I said, âheâs just gone to London for the weekend. Why, you actually ran into him at the station this afternoon.â

âI ran into you. You had a little fat man with youâwith glasses on.â

âYesâDr. Stone.â

âBut, my dear fellowâthat wasnât Stone.â

âNot Stone?â

âNot the archaeologist. I know him quite well. The man wasnât Stoneânot the faintest resemblance.â

We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.

âExtraordinary,â I said.

âThe suitcase,â said Miss Marple.

âBut why?â said Griselda.

âIt reminds me of the time the man went round pretending to be the Gas Inspector,â murmured Miss Marple. âQuite a little haul, he got.â

âAn impostor,â said Raymond West. âNow this is really interesting.â

âThe question is, has it anything to do with the murder?â said Griselda.

âNot necessarily,â I said. âButââ I looked at Miss Marple.

âIt is,â she said, âa Peculiar Thing. Another Peculiar Thing.â

âYes,â I said, rising. âI rather feel the Inspector ought to be told about this at once.â

Twenty-two

Inspector Slackâs orders, once I had got him on the telephone, were brief and emphatic. Nothing was to âget about.â In particular, Miss Cram was not to be alarmed. In the meantime, a search was to be instituted for the suitcase in the neighbourhood of the barrow.

Griselda and I returned home very excited over this new development. We could not say much with Dennis present, as we had faithfully promised Inspector Slack to breath no word to anybody.

In any case, Dennis was full of his own troubles. He came into my study and began fingering things and shuffling his feet and looking thoroughly embarrassed.

âWhat is it, Dennis?â I said at last.

âUncle Len, I donât want to go to sea.â

I was astonished. The boy had been so very decided about his career up to now.

âBut you were so keen on it.â

âYes, but Iâve changed my mind.â

âWhat do you want to do?â

âI want to go into finance.â

I was even more surprised.

âWhat do you meanâfinance?â

âJust that. I want to go into the city.â

âBut, my dear boy, I am sure you would not like the life. Even if I obtained a post for you in a bankââ

Dennis said that wasnât what he meant. He didnât want to go into a bank. I asked him what exactly he did mean, and of course, as I suspected, the boy didnât really know.

By âgoing into finance,â he simply meant getting rich quickly, which with the optimism of youth he imagined was a certainty if one âwent into the city.â I disabused him of this notion as gently as I could.

âWhatâs put it into your head?â I asked. âYou were so satisfied with the idea of going to sea.â

âI know, Uncle Len, but Iâve been thinking. I shall want to marry some dayâand, I mean, youâve got to be rich to marry a girl.â

âFacts disprove your theory,â I said.

âI knowâbut a real girl. I mean, a girl whoâs used to things.â

It was very vague, but I thought I knew what he meant.

âYou know,â I said gently, âall girls arenât like Lettice Protheroe.â

He fired up at once.

âYouâre awfully unfair to her. You donât like her. Griselda doesnât either. She says sheâs tiresome.â

From the feminine point of view Griselda is quite right. Lettice is tiresome. I could quite realize, however, that a boy would resent the adjective.

âIf only people made a few allowances. Why even the Hartley Napiers are going about grousing about her at a time like this! Just because she left their old tennis party a bit early. Why should she stay if she was bored? Jolly decent of her to go at all, I think.â

âQuite a favour,â I said, but Dennis suspected no malice. He was full of his own grievances on Letticeâs behalf.

âSheâs awfully unselfish really. Just to show you, she made me stay. Naturally I wanted to go too. But she wouldnât hear of it. Said it was too bad on the Napiers. So, just to please her, I stopped on a quarter of an hour.â

The young have very curious views on unselfishness.

âAnd now I hear Susan Hartley Napier is going about everywhere saying Lettice has rotten manners.â

âIf I were you,â I said, âI shouldnât worry.â

âItâs all very well, butââ

He broke off.

âIâdâIâd do anything for Lettice.â

âVery few of us can do anything for anyone else,â I said. âHowever much we wish it, we are powerless.â

âI wish I were dead,â said Dennis.

Poor lad. Calf love is a virulent disease. I forebore to say any of the obvious and probably irritating things which come so easily to oneâs lips. Instead, I said goodnight, and went up to bed.

I took the eight oâclock service the following morning and when I returned found Griselda sitting at the breakfast table with an open note in her hand. It was from Anne Protheroe.

âDear Griselda,âIf you and the Vicar could come up and lunch here quietly today, I should be so very grateful. Something very strange has occurred, and I should like Mr. Clementâs advice.

Please donât mention this when you come, as I have said nothing to anyone.

With love,

Yours affectionately,

Anne Protheroe.â

âWe must go, of course,â said Griselda.

I agreed.

âI wonder what can have happened?â

I wondered too.

âYou know,â I said to Griselda, âI donât feel we are really at the end of this case yet.â

âYou mean not till someone has really been arrested?â

âNo,â I said, âI didnât mean that. I mean that there are ramifications, undercurrents, that we know nothing about. There are a whole lot of things to clear up before we get at the truth.â

âYou mean things that donât really matter, but that get in the way?â

âYes, I think that expresses my meaning very well.â

âI think weâre all making a great fuss,â said Dennis, helping himself to marmalade. âItâs a jolly good thing old Protheroe is dead. Nobody liked him. Oh! I know the police have got to worryâitâs their job. But I rather hope myself theyâll never find out. I should hate to see Slack promoted going about swelling with importance over his cleverness.â

I am human enough to feel that I agree over the matter of Slackâs promotion. A man who goes about systematically rubbing people up the wrong way cannot hope to be popular.

âDr. Haydock thinks rather like I do,â went on Dennis. âHeâd never give a murderer up to justice. He said so.â

I think that that is the danger of Haydockâs views. They may be sound in themselvesâit is not for me to sayâbut they produce an impression on the young careless mind which I am sure Haydock himself never meant to convey.

Griselda looked out of the window and remarked that there were reporters in the garden.

âI suppose theyâre photographing the study windows again,â she said, with a sigh.

We had suffered a good deal in this way. There was first the idle curiosity of the villageâeveryone had come to gape and stare. There were next the reporters armed with cameras, and the village again to watch the reporters. In the end we had to have a constable from Much Benham on duty outside the window.

âWell,â I said, âthe funeral is tomorrow morning. After that, surely, the excitement will die down.â

I noticed a few reporters hanging about Old Hall when we arrived there. They accosted me with various queries to which I gave the invariable answer (we had found it the best), that, âI had nothing to say.â

We were shown by the butler into the drawing room, the sole occupant of which turned out to be Miss Cramâapparently in a state of high enjoyment.

âThis is a surprise, isnât it?â she said, as she shook hands. âI never should have thought of such a thing, but Mrs. Protheroe is kind, isnât she? And, of course, it isnât what you might call nice for a young girl to be staying alone at a place like the Blue Boar, reporters about and all. And, of course, itâs not as though I havenât been able to make myself usefulâyou really need a secretary at a time like this, and Miss Protheroe doesnât do anything to help, does she?â

I was amused to notice that the old animosity against Lettice persisted, but that the girl had apparently become a warm partisan of Anneâs. At the same time I wondered if the story of her coming here was strictly accurate. In her account the initiative had come from Anne, but I wondered if that were really so. The first mention of disliking to be at the Blue Boar alone might have easily come from the girl herself. Whilst keeping an open mind on the subject, I did not fancy that Miss Cram was strictly truthful.

At that moment Anne Protheroe entered the room.

She was dressed very quietly in black. She carried in her hand a Sunday paper which she held out to me with a rueful glance.

âIâve never had any experience of this sort of thing. Itâs pretty ghastly, isnât it? I saw a reporter at the inquest. I just said that I was terribly upset and had nothing to say, and then he asked me if I wasnât very anxious to find my husbandâs murderer, and I said âYes.â And then whether I had any suspicions, and I said âNo.â And whether I didnât think the crime showed local knowledge, and I said it seemed to certainly. And that was all. And now look at this!â

In the middle of the page was a photograph, evidently taken at least ten years agoâHeaven knows where they had dug it out. There were large headlines:

WIDOW DECLARES SHE WILL NEVER REST TILL SHE HAS HUNTED DOWN HUSBANDâS MURDERER.

Mrs. Protheroe, the widow of the murdered man, is certain that the murderer must be looked for locally. She has suspicions, but no certainty. She declared herself prostrated with grief, but reiterated her determination to hunt down the murderer.

âIt doesnât sound like me, does it?â said Anne.

âI dare say it might have been worse,â I said, handing back the paper.

âImpudent, arenât they?â said Miss Cram. âIâd like to see one of those fellows trying to get something out of me.â

By the twinkle in Griseldaâs eye, I was convinced that she regarded this statement as being more literally true than Miss Cram intended it to appear.

Luncheon was announced, and we went in. Lettice did not come in till halfway through the meal, when she drifted into the empty place with a smile for Griselda and a nod for me. I watched her with some attention, for reasons of my own, but she seemed much the same vague creature as usual. Extremely prettyâthat in fairness I had to admit. She was still not wearing mourning, but was dressed in a shade of pale green that brought out all the delicacy of her fair colouring.

After we had had coffee, Anne said quietly:

âI want to have a little talk with the Vicar. I will take him up to my sitting room.â

At last I was to learn the reason of our summons. I rose and followed her up the stairs. She paused at the door of the room. As I was about to speak, she stretched out a hand to stop me. She remained listening, looking down towards the hall.

âGood. They are going out into the garden. Noâdonât go in there. We can go straight up.â

Much to my surprise she led the way along the corridor to the extremity of the wing. Here a narrow ladder-like staircase rose to the floor above, and she mounted it, I following. We found ourselves in a dusty boarded passage. Anne opened a door and led me into a large dim attic which was evidently used as a lumber room. There were trunks there, old broken furniture, a few stacked pictures, and the many countless odds and ends which a lumber room collects.

My surprise was so evident that she smiled faintly.

âFirst of all, I must explain. I am sleeping very lightly just now. Last nightâor rather this morning about three oâclock, I was convinced that I heard someone moving about the house. I listened for some time, and at last got up and came out to see. Out on the landing I realized that the sounds came, not from down below, but from up above. I came along to the foot of these stairs. Again I thought I heard a sound. I called up, âIs anybody there?â But there was no answer, and I heard nothing more, so I assumed that my nerves had been playing tricks on me, and went back to bed.

âHowever, early this morning, I came up hereâsimply out of curiosity. And I found this!â

She stooped down and turned round a picture that was leaning against the wall with the back of the canvas towards us.

I gave a gasp of surprise. The picture was evidently a portrait in oils, but the face had been hacked and cut in such a savage way as to render it unrecognizable. Moreover, the cuts were clearly quite fresh.

âWhat an extraordinary thing,â I said.

âIsnât it? Tell me, can you think of any explanation?â

I shook my head.

âThereâs a kind of savagery about it,â I said, âthat I donât like. It looks as though it had been done in a fit of maniacal rage.â

âYes, thatâs what I thought.â

âWhat is the portrait?â

âI havenât the least idea. I have never seen it before. All these things were in the attic when I married Lucius and came here to live. I have never been through them or bothered about them.â

âExtraordinary,â I commented.

I stooped down and examined the other pictures. They were very much what you would expect to findâsome very mediocre landscapes, some oleographs and a few cheaply-framed reproductions.

There was nothing else helpful. A large old-fashioned trunk, of the kind that used to be called an âark,â had the initials E.P. upon it. I raised the lid. It was empty. Nothing else in the attic was the least suggestive.

âIt really is a most amazing occurrence,â I said. âItâs soâsenseless.â

âYes,â said Anne. âThat frightens me a little.â

There was nothing more to see. I accompanied her down to her sitting room where she closed the door.

âDo you think I ought to do anything about it? Tell the police?â

I hesitated.

âItâs hard to say on the face of it whetherââ

âIt has anything to do with the murder or not,â finished Anne. âI know. Thatâs what is so difficult. On the face of it, there seems no connection whatever.â

âNo,â I said, âbut it is another Peculiar Thing.â

We both sat silent with puzzled brows.

âWhat are your plans, if I may ask?â I said presently.

She lifted her head.

âIâm going to live here for at least another six months!â She said it defiantly. âI donât want to. I hate the idea of living here. But I think itâs the only thing to be done. Otherwise people will say that I ran awayâthat I had a guilty conscience.â

âSurely not.â

âOh! Yes, they will. Especially whenââ She paused and then said: âWhen the six months are upâI am going to marry Lawrence.â Her eyes met mine. âWeâre neither of us going to wait any longer.â

âI supposed,â I said, âthat that would happen.â

Suddenly she broke down, burying her head in her hands.

âYou donât know how grateful I am to youâyou donât know. Weâd said good-bye to each otherâhe was going away. I feelâI feel so awful about Luciusâs death. If weâd been planning to go away together, and heâd died thenâit would be so awful now. But you made us both see how wrong it would be. Thatâs why Iâm grateful.â

âI, too, am thankful,â I said gravely.

âAll the same, you know,â she sat up. âUnless the real murderer is found theyâll always think it was Lawrenceâoh! Yes, they will. And especially when he marries me.â

âMy dear, Dr. Haydockâs evidence made it perfectly clearââ

âWhat do people care about evidence? They donât even know about it. And medical evidence never means anything to outsiders anyway. Thatâs another reason why Iâm staying on here. Mr. Clement, Iâm going to find out the truth.â

Her eyes flashed as she spoke. She added:

âThatâs why I asked that girl here.â

âMiss Cram?â

âYes.â

âYou did ask her, then. I mean, it was your idea?â

âEntirely. Oh! As a matter of fact, she whined a bit. At the inquestâshe was there when I arrived. No, I asked her here deliberately.â

âBut surely,â I cried, âyou donât think that that silly young woman could have anything to do with the crime?â

âItâs awfully easy to appear silly, Mr. Clement. Itâs one of the easiest things in the world.â

âThen you really thinkâ?â

âNo, I donât. Honestly, I donât. What I do think is that that girl knows somethingâor might know something. I wanted to study her at close quarters.â

âAnd the very night she arrives, that picture is slashed,â I said thoughtfully.

âYou think she did it? But why? It seems so utterly absurd and impossible.â

âIt seems to me utterly impossible and absurd that your husband should have been murdered in my study,â I said bitterly. âBut he was.â

âI know.â She laid her hand on my arm. âItâs dreadful for you. I do realize that, though I havenât said very much about it.â

I took the blue lapis lazuli earring from my pocket and held it out to her.

âThis is yours, I think?â

âOh, yes!â She held out her hand for it with a pleased smile. âWhere did you find it?â

But I did not put the jewel into her outstretched hand.

âWould you mind,â I said, âif I kept it a little longer?â

âWhy, certainly.â She looked puzzled and a little inquiring. I did not satisfy her curiosity.

Instead I asked her how she was situated financially.

âIt is an impertinent question,â I said, âbut I really do not mean it as such.â

âI donât think itâs impertinent at all. You and Griselda are the best friends I have here. And I like that funny old Miss Marple. Lucius was very well off, you know. He left things pretty equally divided between me and Lettice. Old Hall goes to me, but Lettice is to be allowed to choose enough furniture to furnish a small house, and she is left a separate sum for the purpose of buying one, so as to even things up.â

âWhat are her plans, do you know?â

Anne made a comical grimace.

âShe doesnât tell them to me. I imagine she will leave here as soon as possible. She doesnât like meâshe never has. I dare say itâs my fault, though Iâve really always tried to be decent. But I suppose any girl resents a young stepmother.â

âAre you fond of her?â I asked bluntly.

She did not reply at once, which convinced me that Anne Protheroe is a very honest woman.

âI was at first,â she said. âShe was such a pretty little girl. I donât think I am now. I donât know why. Perhaps itâs because she doesnât like me. I like being liked, you know.â

âWe all do,â I said, and Anne Protheroe smiled.

I had one more task to perform. That was to get a word alone with Lettice Protheroe. I managed that easily enough, catching sight of her in the deserted drawing room. Griselda and Gladys Cram were out in the garden.

I went in and shut the door.

âLettice,â I said, âI want to speak to you about something.â

She looked up indifferently.

âYes?â

I had thought beforehand what to say. I held out the lapis earring and said quietly:

âWhy did you drop that in my study?â

I saw her stiffen for a momentâit was almost instantaneous. Her recovery was so quick that I myself could hardly have sworn to the movement. Then she said carelessly:

âI never dropped anything in your study. Thatâs not mine. Thatâs Anneâs.â

âI know that,â I said.

âWell, why ask me, then? Anne must have dropped it.â

âMrs. Protheroe has only been in my study once since the murder, and then she was wearing black and so would not have been likely to have had on a blue earring.â

âIn that case,â said Lettice, âI suppose she must have dropped it before.â She added: âThatâs only logical.â

âItâs very logical,â I said. âI suppose you donât happen to remember when your stepmother was wearing these earrings last?â

âOh!â She looked at me with a puzzled, trustful gaze. âIs it very important?â

âIt might be,â I said.

âIâll try and think.â She sat there knitting her brows. I have never seen Lettice Protheroe look more charming than she did at that moment. âOh, yes!â she said suddenly. âShe had them onâon Thursday. I remember now.â

âThursday,â I said slowly, âwas the day of the murder. Mrs. Protheroe came to the study in the garden that day, but if you remember, in her evidence, she only came as far as the study window, not inside the room.â

âWhere did you find this?â

âRolled underneath the desk.â

âThen it looks, doesnât it,â said Lettice coolly, âas though she hadnât spoken the truth?â

âYou mean that she came right in and stood by the desk?â

âWell, it looks like it, doesnât it?â

Her eyes met mine serenely.

âIf you want to know,â she said calmly, âI never have thought she was speaking the truth.â

âAnd I know you are not, Lettice.â

âWhat do you mean?â

She was startled.

âI mean,â I said, âthat the last time I saw this earring was on Friday morning when I came up here with Colonel Melchett. It was lying with its fellow on your stepmotherâs dressing table. I actually handled them both.â

âOhâ!â She wavered, then suddenly flung herself sideways over the arm of her chair and burst into tears. Her short fair hair hung down almost touching the floor. It was a strange attitudeâbeautiful and unrestrained.

I let her sob for some moments in silence and then I said very gently:

âLettice, why did you do it?â

âWhat?â

She sprang up, flinging her hair wildly back. She looked wildâalmost terrified.

âWhat do you mean?â

âWhat made you do it? Was it jealousy? Dislike of Anne?â

âOh!âOh, yes!â She pushed the hair back from her face and seemed suddenly to regain complete self-possession. âYes, you can call it jealousy. Iâve always disliked Anneâever since she came queening it here. I put the damned thing under the desk. I hoped it would get her into trouble. It would have done if you hadnât been such a Nosey Parker, fingering things on dressing tables. Anyway, it isnât a clergymanâs business to go about helping the police.â

It was a spiteful, childish outburst. I took no notice of it. Indeed, at that moment, she seemed a very pathetic child indeed.

Her childish attempt at vengeance against Anne seemed hardly to be taken seriously. I told her so, and added that I should return the earring to her and say nothing of the circumstances in which I had found it. She seemed rather touched by that.

âThatâs nice of you,â she said.

She paused a minute and then said, keeping her face averted and evidently choosing her words with care:

âYou know, Mr. Clement, I shouldâI should get Dennis away from here soon, if I were you Iâthink it would be better.â

âDennis?â I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise but with a trace of amusement too.

âI think it would be better.â She added, still in the same awkward manner: âIâm sorry about Dennis. I didnât think heâanyway, Iâm sorry.â

We left it at that.

Twenty-three

On the way back, I proposed to Griselda that we should make a detour and go round by the barrow. I was anxious to see if the police were at work and if so, what they had found. Griselda, however, had things to do at home, so I was left to make the expedition on my own.

I found Constable Hurst in charge of operations.

âNo sign so far, sir,â he reported. âAnd yet it stands to reason that this is the only place for a cache.â

His use of the word cache puzzled me for a moment, as he pronounced it catch, but his real meaning occurred to me almost at once.

âWhatimeantersay is, sir, where else could the young woman be going starting into the wood by that path? It leads to Old Hall, and it leads here, and thatâs about all.â

âI suppose,â I said, âthat Inspector Slack would disdain such a simple course as asking the young lady straight out.â

âAnxious not to put the wind up her,â said Hurst. âAnything she writes to Stone or he writes to her may throw light on thingsâonce she knows weâre on to her, sheâd shut up like that.â

Like what exactly was left in doubt, but I personally doubted Miss Gladys Cram ever being shut up in the way described. It was impossible to imagine her as other than overflowing with conversation.

âWhen a manâs an hâimpostor, you want to know why heâs an hâimpostor,â said Constable Hurst didactically.

âNaturally,â I said.

âAnd the answer is to be found in this here barrowâor else why was he forever messing about with it?â

âA raison dâÃªtre for prowling about,â I suggested, but this bit of French was too much for the constable. He revenged himself for not understanding it by saying coldly:

âThatâs the hâamateurâs point of view.â

âAnyway, you havenât found the suitcase,â I said.

âWe shall do, sir. Not a doubt of it.â

âIâm not so sure,â I said. âIâve been thinking. Miss Marple said it was quite a short time before the girl reappeared empty-handed. In that case, she wouldnât have had time to get up here and back.â

âYou canât take any notice of what old ladies say. When theyâve seen something curious, and are waiting all eager like, why, time simply flies for them. And anyway, no lady knows anything about time.â

I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalize. Generalizations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate. I have a poor sense of time myself (hence the keeping of my clock fast) and Miss Marple, I should say, has a very acute one. Her clocks keep time to the minute and she herself is rigidly punctual on every occasion.

However, I had no intention of arguing with Constable Hurst on the point. I wished him good afternoon and good luck and went on my way.

It was just as I was nearing home that the idea came to me. There was nothing to lead up to it. It just flashed into my brain as a possible solution.

You will remember that on my first search of the path, the day after the murder, I had found the bushes disturbed in a certain place. They proved, or so I thought at the time, to have been disturbed by Lawrence, bent on the same errand as myself.

But I remembered that afterwards he and I together had come upon another faintly marked trail which proved to be that of the Inspector. On thinking it over, I distinctly remembered that the first trail (Lawrenceâs) had been much more noticeable than the second, as though more than one person had been passing that way. And I reflected that that was probably what had drawn Lawrenceâs attention to it in the first instance. Supposing that it had originally been made by either Dr. Stone or else Miss Cram?

I remembered, or else I imagined remembering, that there had been several withered leaves on broken twigs. If so, the trail could not have been made the afternoon of our search.

I was just approaching the spot in question. I recognized it easily enough and once more forced my way through the bushes. This time I noticed fresh twigs broken. Someone had passed this way since Lawrence and myself.

I soon came to the place where I had encountered Lawrence. The faint trail, however, persisted farther, and I continued to follow it. Suddenly it widened out into a little clearing, which showed signs of recent upheaval. I say a clearing, because the denseness of the undergrowth was thinned out there, but the branches of the trees met overhead and the whole place was not more than a few feet across.

On the other side, the undergrowth grew densely again, and it seemed quite clear that no one had forced a way through it recently. Nevertheless, it seemed to have been disturbed in one place.

I went across and kneeled down, thrusting the bushes aside with both hands. A glint of shiny brown surface rewarded me. Full of excitement, I thrust my arm in and with a good deal of difficulty I extracted a small brown suitcase.

I uttered an ejaculation of triumph. I had been successful. Coldly snubbed by Constable Hurst, I had yet proved right in my reasoning. Here without doubt was the suitcase carried by Miss Cram. I tried the hasp, but it was locked.

As I rose to my feet I noticed a small brownish crystal lying on the ground. Almost automatically, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.

Then grasping my find by the handle, I retraced my steps to the path.

As I climbed over the stile into the lane, an agitated voice near at hand called out:

âOh! Mr. Clement. Youâve found it! How clever of you!â

Mentally registering the fact that in the art of seeing without being seen, Miss Marple had no rival, I balanced my find on the palings between us.

âThatâs the one,â said Miss Marple âIâd know it anywhere.â

This, I thought, was a slight exaggeration. There are thousands of cheap shiny suitcases all exactly alike. No one could recognize one particular one seen from such a distance away by moonlight, but I realized that the whole business of the suitcase was Miss Marpleâs particular triumph and, as such, she was entitled to a little pardonable exaggeration.

âItâs locked, I suppose, Mr. Clement?â

âYes. Iâm just going to take it down to the police station.â

âYou donât think it would be better to telephone?â

Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity.

So I unlatched Miss Marpleâs garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing room with the door shut, I telephoned my news.

The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies.

When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood.

âSo weâve got it, have we?â he said. âYou know, sir, you shouldnât keep things to yourself. If youâd any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities.â

âIt was a pure accident,â I said. âThe idea just happened to occur to me.â

âAnd thatâs a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it.â

I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing.

âWell?â said Inspector Slack, eyeing the suitcase with dislike and would be indifference, âI suppose we might as well have a look at whatâs inside.â

He had brought an assortment of keys and wire with him. The lock was a cheap affair. In a couple of seconds the case was open.

I donât know what we had expected to findâsomething sternly sensational, I imagine. But the first thing that met our eyes was a greasy plaid scarf. The Inspector lifted it out. Next came a faded dark blue overcoat, very much the worse for wear. A checked cap followed.

âA shoddy lot,â said the Inspector.

A pair of boots very down at heel and battered came next. At the bottom of the suitcase was a parcel done up in newspaper.

âFancy shirt, I suppose,â said the Inspector bitterly, as he tore it open.

A moment later he had caught his breath in surprise.

For inside the parcel were some demure little silver objects and a round platter of the same metal.

Miss Marple gave a shrill exclamation of recognition.

âThe trencher salts,â she exclaimed. âColonel Protheroeâs trencher salts, and the Charles II tazza. Did you ever hear of such a thing!â

The Inspector had got very red.

âSo that was the game,â he muttered. âRobbery. But I canât make it out. Thereâs been no mention of these things being missing.â

âPerhaps they havenât discovered the loss,â I suggested. âI presume these valuable things would not have been kept out in common use. Colonel Protheroe probably kept them locked away in a safe.â

âI must investigate this,â said the Inspector. âIâll go right up to Old Hall now. So thatâs why our Dr. Stone made himself scarce. What with the murder and one thing and another, he was afraid weâd get wind of his activities. As likely as not his belongings might have been searched. He got the girl to hide them in the wood with a suitable change of clothing. He meant to come back by a roundabout route and go off with them one night whilst she stayed here to disarm suspicion. Well, thereâs one thing to the good. This lets him out over the murder. Heâd nothing to do with that. Quite a different game.â

He repacked the suitcase and took his departure, refusing Miss Marpleâs offer of a glass of sherry.

âWell, thatâs one mystery cleared up,â I said with a sigh. âWhat Slack says is quite true; there are no grounds for suspecting him of the murder. Everythingâs accounted for quite satisfactorily.â

âIt really would seem so,â said Miss Marple. âAlthough one never can be quite certain, can one?â

âThereâs a complete lack of motive,â I pointed out. âHeâd got what he came for and was clearing out.â

âYâes.â

She was clearly not quite satisfied, and I looked at her in some curiosity. She hastened to answer my inquiring gaze with a kind of apologetic eagerness.

âIâve no doubt I am quite wrong. Iâm so stupid about these things. But I just wonderedâI mean this silver is very valuable, is it not?â

âA tazza sold the other day for over a thousand pounds, I believe.â

âI meanâitâs not the value of the metal.â

âNo, itâs what one might call a connoisseurâs value.â

âThatâs what I mean. The sale of such things would take a little time to arrange, or even if it was arranged, it couldnât be carried through without secrecy. I meanâif the robbery were reported and a hue and cry were raised, well, the things couldnât be marketed at all.â

âI donât quite see what you mean?â I said.

âI know Iâm putting it badly.â She became more flustered and apologetic. âBut it seems to me thatâthat the things couldnât just have been abstracted, so to speak. The only satisfactory thing to do would be to replace these things with copies. Then, perhaps, the robbery wouldnât be discovered for some time.â

âThatâs a very ingenious idea,â I said.

âIt would be the only way to do it, wouldnât it? And if so, of course, as you say, once the substitution had been accomplished there wouldnât have been any reason for murdering Colonel Protheroeâquite the reverse.â

âExactly,â I said. âThatâs what I said.â

âYes, but I just wonderedâI donât know, of courseâand Colonel Protheroe always talked a lot about doing things before he actually did do them, and, of course, sometimes never did them at all, but he did sayââ

âYes?â

âThat he was going to have all his things valuedâa man down from London. For probateâno, thatâs when youâre deadâfor insurance. Someone told him that was the thing to do. He talked about it a great deal, and the importance of having it done. Of course, I donât know if he had made any actual arrangements, but if he hadâ¦.â

âI see,â I said slowly.

âOf course, the moment the expert saw the silver, heâd know, and then Colonel Protheroe would remember having shown the things to Dr. StoneâI wonder if it was done thenâlegerdemain, donât they call it? So cleverâand then, well, the fat would be in the fire, to use an old-fashioned expression.â

âI see your idea,â I said. âI think we ought to find out for certain.â

I went once more to the telephone. In a few minutes I was through to Old Hall and speaking to Anne Protheroe.

âNo, itâs nothing very important. Has the Inspector arrived yet? Oh! Well, heâs on his way. Mrs. Protheroe, can you tell me if the contents of Old Hall were ever valued? Whatâs that you say?â

Her answer came clear and prompt. I thanked her, replaced the receiver, and turned to Miss Marple.

âThatâs very definite. Colonel Protheroe had made arrangements for a man to come down from London on Mondayâtomorrowâto make a full valuation. Owing to the Colonelâs death, the matter has been put off.â

âThen there was a motive,â said Miss Marple softly.

âA motive, yes. But thatâs all. You forget. When the shot was fired, Dr. Stone had just joined the others, or was climbing over the stile in order to do so.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple thoughtfully. âSo that rules him out.â

Twenty-four

I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study. He was pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he started as though he had been shot.

âYou must excuse me,â he said, wiping his forehead. âMy nerves are all to pieces lately.â

âMy dear fellow,â I said, âyou positively must get away for a change. We shall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do.â

âI canât desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do.â

âItâs not a case of desertion. You are ill. Iâm sure Haydock would agree with me.â

âHaydockâHaydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant country practitioner.â

âI think youâre unfair to him. He has always been considered a very able man in his profession.â

âOh! Perhaps. Yes, I dare say. But I donât like him. However, thatâs not what I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough to preach tonight instead of me. IâI really do not feel equal to it.â

âWhy, certainly. I will take the service for you.â

âNo, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the idea of getting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at meâ¦.â

He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.

It is clear to me that there is something very wrong indeed the matter with Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his eyes and said quickly:

âThere is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these headachesâthese awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me have a glass of water.â

âCertainly,â I said.

I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a profitless form of exercise in our house.

I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocket a small cardboard box, and opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule, which he swallowed with the aid of the water.

âA headache powder,â he explained.

I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted to drugs. It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.

âYou donât take too many, I hope,â I said.

âNoâoh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really wonderful. They bring instant relief.â

Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.

He stood up.

âThen you will preach tonight? Itâs very good of you, sir.â

âNot at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home and rest. No, I wonât have any argument. Not another word.â

He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the window:

âYouâhave been up at Old Hall today, havenât you, sir?â

âYes.â

âExcuse meâbut were you sent for?â

I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.

âIâm sorry, sir. IâI just thought some new development might have arisen and that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you.â

I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawesâs curiosity.

âShe wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two other small matters with me,â I said.

âOh! That was all. I see.â

I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:

âMr. Redding came to see me last night. IâI canât imagine why.â

âDidnât he tell you?â

âHeâhe just said he thought heâd look me up. Said it was a bit lonely in the evenings. Heâs never done such a thing before.â

âWell, heâs supposed to be pleasant company,â I said, smiling.

âWhat does he want to come and see me for? I donât like it.â His voice rose shrilly. âHe spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean? What idea do you think he has got into his head?â

âWhy should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?â I asked.

âI donât like it,â repeated Hawes obstinately. âIâve never gone against him in any way. I never suggested that he was guiltyâeven when he accused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If Iâve had suspicions of anybody itâs been of Archerânever of him. Archer is a totally different propositionâa godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.â

âDonât you think youâre being a little harsh?â I said. âAfter all, we really know very little about the man.â

âA poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.â

âDo you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?â I asked curiously.

Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed it several times lately.

âDonât you think yourself, sir, that itâs the only possible solution?â

âAs far as we know,â I said, âthereâs no evidence of any kind against him.â

âHis threats,â said Hawes eagerly. âYou forget about his threats.â

I am sick and tired of hearing about Archerâs threats. As far as I can make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.

âHe was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed himself with drink and then shot him.â

âThatâs pure supposition.â

âBut you will admit that itâs perfectly probable?â

âNo, I donât.â

âPossible, then?â

âPossible, yes.â

Hawes glanced at me sideways.

âWhy donât you think itâs probable?â

âBecause,â I said, âa man like Archer wouldnât think of shooting a man with a pistol. Itâs the wrong weapon.â

Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasnât the objection he had expected.

âDo you really think the objection is feasible?â he asked doubtingly.

âTo my mind it is a complete stumbling block to Archerâs having committed the crime,â I said.

In face of my positive assertion, Hawes said no more. He thanked me again and left.

I had gone as far as the front door with him, and on the hall table I saw four notes. They had certain characteristics in common. The handwriting was almost unmistakably feminine, they all bore the words, âBy hand, Urgent,â and the only difference I could see was that one was noticeably dirtier than the rest.

Their similarity gave me a curious feeling of seeingânot double but quadruple.

Mary came out of the kitchen and caught me staring at them.

âCome by hand since lunchtime,â she volunteered. âAll but one. I found that in the box.â

I nodded, gathered them up and took them into the study.

The first one ran thus:

âDear Mr. Clement,âSomething has come to my knowledge which I feel you ought to know. It concerns the death of poor Colonel Protheroe. I should much appreciate your advice on the matterâwhether to go to the police or not. Since my dear husbandâs death, I have such a shrinking from every kind of publicity. Perhaps you could run in and see me for a few minutes this afternoon.

Yours sincerely,

Martha Price Ridley.â

I opened the second:

âDear Mr. Clement,âI am so troubledâso excited in my mindâto know what I ought to do. Something has come to my ears that I feel may be important. I have such a horror of being mixed up with the police in any way. I am so disturbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you, dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve my doubts and perplexities for me in the wonderful way you always do?

Forgive my troubling you,

Yours very sincerely,

Caroline Wetherby.â

The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand.

âDear Mr. Clement,âSomething most important has come to my ears. I feel you should be the first to know about it. Will you call in and see me this afternoon some time? I will wait in for you.â

This militant epistle was signed âAmanda Hartnell.â

I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubled with very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, the meanest and cruellest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It purported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things inclined me to disbelieve that assumption.

âDear Vicar,âI think you ought to know what is Going On. Your lady has been seen coming out of Mr. Reddingâs cottage in a surreptitious manner. You know wot i mean. The two are Carrying On together. i think you ought to know.

A Friend.â

I made a faint exclamation of disgust and crumpling up the paper tossed it into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room.

âWhatâs that youâre throwing down so contemptuously?â she asked.

âFilth,â I said.

Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda, however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up the crumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her.

She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back to me, turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn.

Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking out into the garden.

âLen,â she said, without turning round.

âYes, my dear.â

âIâd like to tell you something. Yes, donât stop me. I want to, please. Whenâwhen Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had only known him slightly before. That wasnât true. Iâhad known him rather well. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him. I think most people are with Lawrence. I wasâwell, absolutely silly about him at one time. I donât mean I wrote him compromising letters or anything idiotic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him once.â

âWhy didnât you tell me?â I asked.

âOh! Because! I donât know exactly except thatâwell, youâre foolish in some ways. Just because youâre so much older than I am, you think that Iâwell, that Iâm likely to like other people. I thought youâd be tiresome, perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends.â

âYouâre very clever at concealing things,â I said, remembering what she had told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous way she had talked.

âYes, Iâve always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it.â

Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure to it.

âBut itâs quite true what I said. I didnât know about Anne, and I wondered why Lawrence was so different, notâwell, really not noticing me. Iâm not used to it.â

There was a pause.

âYou do understand, Len?â said Griselda anxiously.

âYes,â I said, âI understand.â

But did I?

Twenty-five

I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous letter. Pitch soils.

However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, and started out.

I wondered very much what this might be that had âcome to the knowledgeâ of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at fault.

I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feet gravitated there of their own accord. I was anxious to know whether Inspector Slack had returned from Old Hall.

I found that he had, and further, that Miss Cram had returned with him. The fair Gladys was seated in the police station carrying off matters with a high hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to the woods.

âJust because one of these gossiping old cats had nothing better to do than look out of her window all night you go and pitch upon me. Sheâs been mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end of the lane on the afternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then, in daylight, how can she possibly have recognized me by moonlight?

âWicked it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything, they will. And me asleep in my bed as innocent as can be. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.â

âAnd supposing the landlady of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase as yours, Miss Cram?â

âIf she says anything of the kind, sheâs wrong. Thereâs no name on it. Nearly everybodyâs got a suitcase like that. As for poor Dr. Stone, accusing him of being a common burglar! And he has a lot of letters after his name.â

âYou refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?â

âNo refusing about it. Youâve made a mistake, thatâs all. You and your meddlesome Marples. I wonât say a word moreânot without my solicitor present. Iâm going this minuteâunless youâre going to arrest me.â

For answer, the Inspector rose and opened the door for her, and with a toss of the head, Miss Cram walked out.

âThatâs the line she takes,â said Slack, coming back to his chair. âAbsolute denial. And, of course, the old lady may have been mistaken. No jury would believe you could recognize anyone from that distance on a moonlit night. And, of course, as I say, the old lady may have made a mistake.â

âShe may,â I said, âbut I donât think she did. Miss Marple is usually right. Thatâs what makes her unpopular.â

The Inspector grinned.

âThatâs what Hurst says. Lord, these villages!â

âWhat about the silver, Inspector?â

âSeemed to be perfectly in order. Of course, that meant one lot or the other must be a fake. Thereâs a very good man in Much Benham, an authority on old silver. Iâve phoned over to him and sent a car to fetch him. Weâll soon know which is which. Either the burglary was an accomplished fact, or else it was only planned. Doesnât make a frightful lot of difference either wayâI mean as far as weâre concerned. Robberyâs a small business compared with murder. These two arenât concerned with the murder. Weâll maybe get a line on him through the girlâthatâs why I let her go without any more fuss.â

âI wondered,â I said.

âA pity about Mr. Redding. Itâs not often you find a man who goes out of his way to oblige you.â

âI suppose not,â I said, smiling slightly.

âWomen cause a lot of trouble,â moralized the Inspector.

He sighed and then went on, somewhat to my surprise: âOf course, thereâs Archer.â

âOh!â I said, âYouâve thought of him?â

âWhy, naturally, sir, first thing. It didnât need any anonymous letters to put me on his track.â

âAnonymous letters,â I said sharply. âDid you get one, then?â

âThatâs nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh, yes, we were put wise to Archer. As though the police couldnât look out for themselves! Archerâs been under suspicion from the first. The trouble of it is, heâs got an alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but itâs awkward to get over.â

âWhat do you mean by its not amounting to anything?â I asked.

âWell, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not, as I say, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would swear to anything. Thereâs no believing a word they say. We know that. But the public doesnât, and the juryâs taken from the public, moreâs the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything thatâs said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself will swear till heâs black in the face that he didnât do it.â

âNot so obliging as Mr. Redding,â I said with a smile.

âNot he,â said the Inspector, making the remark as a plain statement of fact.

âIt is natural, I suppose, to cling to life,â I mused.

âYouâd be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off through the softheartedness of the jury,â said the Inspector gloomily.

âBut do you really think that Archer did it?â I asked.

It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems to have any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or difficulty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to appeal to him.

âIâd like to be a bit surer,â he admitted. âA fingerprint now, or a footprint, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Canât risk arresting him without something of that kind. Heâs been seen round Mr. Reddingâs house once or twice, but heâd say that was to speak to his mother. A decent body, she is. No, on the whole, Iâm for the lady. If I could only get definite proof of blackmailâbut you canât get definite proof of anything in this crime! Itâs theory, theory, theory. Itâs a sad pity that thereâs not a single spinster lady living along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet sheâd have seen something if there had been.â

His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It was about the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.

My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching me from the window, for before I had time to ring she had opened the front door, and clasping my hand firmly in hers, had led me over the threshold.

âSo good of you to come. In here. More private.â

We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop. Miss Hartnell shut the door and with an air of deep secrecy waved me to a seat (there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.

âIâm never one to beat about the bush,â she said in her jolly voice, the latter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the situation. âYou know how things go the rounds in a village like this.â

âUnfortunately,â I said, âI do.â

âI agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it is. I thought it my duty to tell the police inspector that Iâd called on Mrs. Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I donât expect to be thanked for doing my duty, I just do it. Ingratitude is what you meet with first and last in this life. Why, only yesterday that impudent Mrs. Bakerââ

âYes, yes,â I said, hoping to avert the usual tirade. âVery sad, very sad. But you were saying.â

âThe lower classes donât know who are their best friends,â said Miss Hartnell. âI always say a word in season when Iâm visiting. Not that Iâm ever thanked for it.â

âYou were telling the Inspector about your call upon Mrs. Lestrange,â I prompted.

âExactlyâand by the way, he didnât thank me. Said heâd ask for information when he wanted itânot those words exactly, but that was the spirit. Thereâs a different class of men in the police force nowadays.â

âVery probably,â I said. âBut you were going on to say something?â

âI decided that this time I wouldnât go near any wretched inspector. After all, a clergyman is a gentlemanâat least some are,â she added.

I gathered that the qualification was intended to include me.

âIf I can help you in any way,â I began.

âItâs a matter of duty,â said Miss Hartnell, and closed her mouth with a snap. âI donât want to have to say these things. No one likes it less. But duty is duty.â

I waited.

âIâve been given to understand,â went on Miss Hartnell, turning rather red, âthat Mrs. Lestrange gives out that she was at home all the timeâthat she didnât answer the door becauseâwell, she didnât choose. Such airs and graces. I only called as a matter of duty, and to be treated like that!â

âShe has been ill,â I said mildly.

âIll? Fiddlesticks. Youâre too unworldly, Mr. Clement. Thereâs nothing the matter with that woman. Too ill to attend the inquest indeed! Medical certificate from Dr. Haydock! She can wind him round her little finger, everyone knows that. Well, where was I?â

I didnât quite know. It is difficult with Miss Hartnell to know where narrative ends and vituperation begins.

âOh, about calling on her that afternoon. Well, itâs fiddlesticks to say she was in the house. She wasnât. I know.â

âHow can you possibly know?â

Miss Hartnellâs face turned redder. In someone less truculent, her demeanour might have been called embarrassed.

âIâd knocked and rung,â she explained. âTwice. If not three times. And it occurred to me suddenly that the bell might be out of order.â

She was, I was glad to note, unable to look me in the face when saying this. The same builder builds all our houses and the bells he installs are clearly audible when standing on the mat outside the front door. Both Miss Hartnell and I knew this perfectly well, but I suppose decencies have to be preserved.

âYes?â I murmured.

âI didnât want to push my card through the letter box. That would seem so rude, and whatever I am, I am never rude.â

She made this amazing statement without a tremor.

âSo I thought I would just go round the house andâand tap on the window pane,â she continued unblushingly. âI went all round the house and looked in at all the windows, but there was no one in the house at all.â

I understood her perfectly. Taking advantage of the fact that the house was empty, Miss Hartnell had given unbridled rein to her curiosity and had gone round the house examining the garden and peering in at all the windows to see as much as she could of the interior. She had chosen to tell her story to me, believing that I should be a more sympathetic and lenient audience than the police. The clergy are supposed to give the benefit of the doubt to their parishioners.

I made no comment on the situation. I merely asked a question.

âWhat time was this, Miss Hartnell?â

âAs far as I can remember,â said Miss Hartnell, âit must have been close on six oâclock. I went straight home afterwards, and I got in about ten past six, and Mrs. Protheroe came in somewhere round about the half hour, leaving Dr. Stone and Mr. Redding outside, and we talked about bulbs. And all the time the poor Colonel lying murdered. Itâs a sad world.â

âIt is sometimes a rather unpleasant one,â I said.

I rose.

âAnd that is all you have to tell me?â

âI just thought it might be important.â

âIt might,â I agreed.

And refusing to be drawn further, much to Miss Hartnellâs disappointment, I took my leave.

Miss Wetherby, whom I visited next, received me in a kind of flutter.

âDear Vicar, how truly kind. Youâve had tea? Really, you wonât? A cushion for your back? It is so kind of you to come round so promptly. Always willing to put yourself out for others.â

There was a good deal of this before we came to the point, and even then it was approached with a good deal of circumlocution.

âYou must understand that I heard this on the best authority.â

In St. Mary Mead the best authority is always somebody elseâs servant.

âYou canât tell me who told you?â

âI promised, dear Mr. Clement. And I always think a promise should be a sacred thing.â

She looked very solemn.

âShall we say a little bird told me? That is safe isnât it?â

I longed to say, âItâs damned silly.â I rather wish I had. I should have liked to observe the effect on Miss Wetherby.

âWell, this little bird told that she saw a certain lady, who shall be nameless.â

âAnother kind of bird?â I inquired.

To my great surprise Miss Wetherby went off into paroxysms of laughter and tapped me playfully on the arm saying:

âOh, Vicar, you must not be so naughty!â

When she had recovered, she went on.

âA certain lady, and where do you think this certain lady was going? She turned into the Vicarage road, but before she did so, she looked up and down the road in a most peculiar wayâto see if anyone she knew were noticing her, I imagine.â

âAnd the little birdââ I inquired.

âPaying a visit to the fishmongerâsâin the room over the shop.â

I know where maids go on their days out. I know there is one place they never go if they can helpâanywhere in the open air.

âAnd the time,â continued Miss Wetherby, leaning forward mysteriously, âwas just before six oâclock.â

âOn which day?â

Miss Wetherby gave a little scream.

âThe day of the murder, of course, didnât I say so?â

âI inferred it,â I replied. âAnd the name of the lady?â

âBegins with an L,â said Wetherby, nodding her head several times.

Feeling that I had got to the end of the information Miss Wetherby had to impart, I rose to my feet.

âYou wonât let the police cross-question me, will you?â said Miss Wetherby, pathetically, as she clasped my hand in both of hers. âI do shrink from publicity. And to stand up in court!â

âIn special cases,â I said, âthey let witnesses sit down.â

And I escaped.

There was still Mrs. Price Ridley to see. That lady put me in my place at once.

âI will not be mixed up in any police court business,â she said grimly, after shaking my hand coldly. âYou understand that, on the other hand, having come across a circumstance which needs explaining, I think it should be brought to the notice of the authorities.â

âDoes it concern Mrs. Lestrange?â I asked.

âWhy should it?â demanded Mrs. Price Ridley coldly.

She had me at a disadvantage there.

âItâs a very simple matter,â she continued. âMy maid, Clara, was standing at the front gate, she went down there for a minute or twoâshe says to get a breath of fresh air. Most unlikely, I should say. Much more probable that she was looking out for the fishmongerâs boyâif he calls himself a boyâimpudent young jackanapes, thinks because heâs seventeen he can joke with all the girls. Anyway, as I say, she was standing at the gate and she heard a sneeze.â

âYes,â I said, waiting for more.

âThatâs all. I tell you she heard a sneeze. And donât start telling me Iâm not so young as I once was and may have made a mistake, because it was Clara who heard it and sheâs only nineteen.â

âBut,â I said, âwhy shouldnât she have heard a sneeze?â

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me in obvious pity for my poorness of intellect.

âShe heard a sneeze on the day of the murder at a time when there was no one in your house. Doubtless the murderer was concealed in the bushes waiting his opportunity. What you have to look for is a man with a cold in his head.â

âOr a sufferer from hay fever,â I suggested. âBut as a matter of fact, Mrs. Price Ridley, I think that mystery has a very easy solution. Our maid, Mary, has been suffering from a severe cold in the head. In fact, her sniffing has tried us very much lately. It must have been her sneeze your maid heard.â

âIt was a manâs sneeze,â said Mrs. Price Ridley firmly. âAnd you couldnât hear your maid sneeze in your kitchen from our gate.â

âYou couldnât hear anyone sneezing in the study from your gate,â I said. âOr at least, I very much doubt it.â

âI said the man might have been concealed in the shrubbery,â said Mrs. Price Ridley. âDoubtless when Clara had gone in, he effected an entrance by the front door.â

âWell, of course, thatâs possible,â I said.

I tried not to make my voice consciously soothing, but I must have failed, for Mrs. Price Ridley glared at me suddenly.

âI am accustomed not to be listened to, but I might mention also that to leave a tennis racquet carelessly flung down on the grass without a press completely ruins it. And tennis racquets are very expensive nowadays.â

There did not seem to be rhyme or reason in this flank attack. It bewildered me utterly.

âBut perhaps you donât agree,â said Mrs. Price Ridley.

âOh! I doâcertainly.â

âI am glad. Well, that is all I have to say. I wash my hands of the whole affair.â

She leaned back and closed her eyes like one weary of this world. I thanked her and said good-bye.

On the doorstep, I ventured to ask Clara about her mistressâs statement.

âItâs quite true, sir, I heard a sneeze. And it wasnât an ordinary sneezeânot by any means.â

Nothing about a crime is ever ordinary. The shot was not an ordinary kind of shot. The sneeze was not a usual kind of sneeze. It was, I presume, a special murdererâs sneeze. I asked the girl what time this had been, but she was very vague, some time between a quarter and half past six she thought. Anyway, âit was before the mistress had the telephone call and was took bad.â

I asked her if she had heard a shot of any kind. And she said the shots had been something awful. After that, I placed very little credence in her statements.

I was just turning in at my own gate when I decided to pay a friend a visit.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had just time for it before taking Evensong. I went down the road to Haydockâs house. He came out on the doorstep to meet me.

I noticed afresh how worried and haggard he looked. This business seemed to have aged him out of all knowledge.

âIâm glad to see you,â he said. âWhatâs the news?â

I told him the latest Stone development.

âA high-class thief,â he commented. âWell, that explains a lot of things. Heâd read up his subject, but he made slips from time to time to me. Protheroe must have caught him out once. You remember the row they had. What do you think about the girl? Is she in it too?â

âOpinion as to that is undecided,â I said. âFor my own part, I think the girl is all right.

âSheâs such a prize idiot,â I added.

âOh! I wouldnât say that. Sheâs rather shrewd, is Miss Gladys Cram. A remarkably healthy specimen. Not likely to trouble members of my profession.â

I told him that I was worried about Hawes, and that I was anxious that he should get away for a real rest and change.

Something evasive came into his manner when I said this. His answer did not ring quite true.

âYes,â he said slowly. âI suppose that would be the best thing. Poor chap. Poor chap.â

âI thought you didnât like him.â

âI donâtânot much. But Iâm sorry for a lot of people I donât like.â He added after a minute or two: âIâm even sorry for Protheroe. Poor fellowânobody ever liked him much. Too full of his own rectitude and too self-assertive. Itâs an unlovable mixture. He was always the sameâeven as a young man.â

âI didnât know you knew him then.â

âOh, yes! When we lived in Westmorland, I had a practice not far away. Thatâs a long time ago now. Nearly twenty years.â

I sighed. Twenty years ago Griselda was five years old. Time is an odd thingâ¦.

âIs that all you came to say to me, Clement?â

I looked up with a start. Haydock was watching me with keen eyes.

âThereâs something else, isnât there?â he said.

I nodded.

I had been uncertain whether to speak or not when I came in, but now I decided to do so. I like Haydock as well as any man I know. He is a splendid fellow in every way. I felt that what I had to tell might be useful to him.

I recited my interviews with Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby.

He was silent for a long time after Iâd spoken.

âItâs quite true, Clement,â he said at last. âIâve been trying to shield Mrs. Lestrange from any inconvenience that I could. As a matter of fact, sheâs an old friend. But thatâs not my only reason. That medical certificate of mine isnât the put-up job you all think it was.â

He paused, and then said gravely:

âThis is between you and me, Clement. Mrs. Lestrange is doomed.â

âWhat?â

âSheâs a dying woman. I give her a month at longest. Do you wonder that I want to keep her from being badgered and questioned?â

He went on:

âWhen she turned into this road that evening it was here she cameâto this house.â

âYou havenât said so before.â

âI didnât want to create talk. Six to seven isnât my time for seeing patients, and everyone knows that. But you can take my word for it that she was here.â

âShe wasnât here when I came for you, though. I mean, when we discovered the body.â

âNo,â he seemed perturbed. âSheâd leftâto keep an appointment.â

âIn what direction was the appointment? In her own house?â

âI donât know, Clement. On my honour, I donât know.â

I believed him, butâ

âAnd supposing an innocent man is hanged?â I said.

âNo,â he said. âNo one will be hanged for the murder of Colonel Protheroe. You can take my word for that.â

But that is just what I could not do. And yet the certainty in his voice was very great.

âNo one will be hanged,â he repeated.

âThis man, Archerââ

He made an impatient movement.

âHasnât got brains enough to wipe his fingerprints off the pistol.â

âPerhaps not,â I said dubiously.

Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal I had found in the wood from my pocket, I held it out to him and asked him what it was.

âHâm,â he hesitated. âLooks like picric acid. Where did you find it?â

âThat,â I replied, âis Sherlock Holmesâs secret.â

He smiled.

âWhat is picric acid?â

âWell, itâs an explosive.â

âYes, I know that, but itâs got another use, hasnât it?â

He nodded.

âItâs used medicallyâin solution for burns. Wonderful stuff.â

I held out my hand, and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me.

âItâs of no consequence probably,â I said. âBut I found it in rather an unusual place.â

âYou wonât tell me where?â

Rather childishly, I wouldnât.

He had his secrets. Well, I would have mine.

I was a little hurt that he had not confided in me more fully.

Twenty-six

I was in a strange mood when I mounted the pulpit that night.

The church was unusually full. I cannot believe that it was the prospect of Hawes preaching which had attracted so many. Hawesâs sermons are dull and dogmatic. And if the news had got round that I was preaching instead, that would not have attracted them either. For my sermons are dull and scholarly. Neither, I am afraid, can I attribute it to devotion.

Everybody had come, I concluded, to see who else was there, and possibly exchange a little gossip in the church porch afterwards.

Haydock was in church, which is unusual, and also Lawrence Redding. And to my surprise, beside Lawrence I saw the white strained face of Hawes. Anne Protheroe was there, but she usually attends Evensong on Sundays, though I had hardly thought she would today. I was far more surprised to see Lettice. Churchgoing was compulsory on Sunday morningâColonel Protheroe was adamant on that point, but I had never seen Lettice at evening service before.

Gladys Cram was there, looking rather blatantly young and healthy against a background of wizened spinsters, and I fancied that a dim figure at the end of the church who had slipped in late, was Mrs. Lestrange.

I need hardly say that Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby, and Miss Marple were there in full force. All the village people were there, with hardly a single exception. I donât know when we have had such a crowded congregation.

Crowds are queer things. There was a magnetic atmosphere that night, and the first person to feel its influence was myself.

As a rule, I prepare my sermons beforehand. I am careful and conscientious over them, but no one is better aware than myself of their deficiencies.

Tonight I was of necessity preaching extempore, and as I looked down on the sea of upturned faces, a sudden madness entered my brain. I ceased to be in any sense a Minister of God. I became an actor. I had an audience before me and I wanted to move that audienceâand more, I felt the power to move it.

I am not proud of what I did that night. I am an utter disbeliever in the emotional Revivalist spirit. Yet that night I acted the part of a raving, ranting evangelist.

I gave out my text slowly.

I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

I repeated it twice, and I heard my own voice, a resonant, ringing voice unlike the voice of the everyday Leonard Clement.

I saw Griselda from her front pew look up in surprise and Dennis follow her example.

I held my breath for a moment or two, and then I let myself rip.

The congregation in that church were in a state of pent-up emotion, ripe to be played upon. I played upon them. I exhorted sinners to repentance. I lashed myself into a kind of emotional frenzy. Again and again I threw out a denouncing hand and reiterated the phrase.

âI am speaking to you.â¦â

And each time, from different parts of the church, a kind of sighing gasp went up.

Mass emotion is a strange and terrible thing.

I finished up with those beautiful and poignant wordsâperhaps the most poignant words in the whole Bible:

âThis night thy soul shall be required of theeâ¦.â

It was a strange, brief possession. When I got back to the Vicarage I was my usual faded, indeterminate self. I found Griselda rather pale. She slipped her arm through mine.

âLen,â she said, âyou were rather terrible tonight. IâI didnât like it. Iâve never heard you preach like that before.â

âI donât suppose you ever will again,â I said, sinking down wearily on the sofa. I was tired.

âWhat made you do it?â

âA sudden madness came over me.â

âOh! Itâit wasnât something special?â

âWhat do you meanâsomething special?â

âI wonderedâthat was all. Youâre very unexpected, Len. I never feel I really know you.â

We sat down to cold supper, Mary being out.

âThereâs a note for you in the hall,â said Griselda. âGet it, will you, Dennis?â

Dennis, who had been very silent, obeyed.

I took it and groaned. Across the top left-hand corner was written: By handâUrgent.

âThis,â I said, âmust be from Miss Marple. Thereâs no one else left.â

I had been perfectly correct in my assumption.

âDear Mr. Clement,âI should so much like to have a little chat with you about one or two things that have occurred to me. I feel we should all try and help in elucidating this sad mystery. I will come over about half past nine if I may, and tap on your study window. Perhaps dear Griselda would be so very kind as to run over here and cheer up my nephew. And Mr. Dennis too, of course, if he cares to come. If I do not hear, I will expect them and will come over myself at the time I have stated.

Yours very sincerely,

Jane Marple.â

I handed the note to Griselda.

âOh, weâll go!â she said cheerfully. âA glass or two of homemade liqueur is just what one needs on Sunday evening. I think itâs Maryâs blancmange that is so frightfully depressing. Itâs like something out of a mortuary.â

Dennis seemed less charmed at the prospect.

âItâs all very well for you,â he grumbled. âYou can talk all this highbrow stuff about art and books. I always feel a perfect fool sitting and listening to you.â

âThatâs good for you,â said Griselda serenely. âIt puts you in your place. Anyway, I donât think Mr. Raymond West is so frightfully clever as he pretends to be.â

âVery few of us are,â I said.

I wondered very much what exactly it was that Miss Marple wished to talk over. Of all the ladies in my congregation, I considered her by far the shrewdest. Not only does she see and hear practically everything that goes on, but she draws amazingly neat and apposite deductions from the facts that come under her notice.

If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of Miss Marple that I should be afraid.

What Griselda called the Nephew Amusing Party started off at a little after nine, and whilst I was waiting for Miss Marple to arrive I amused myself by drawing up a kind of schedule of the facts connected with the crime. I arranged them so far as possible in chronological order. I am not a punctual person, but I am a neat one, and I like things jotted down in a methodical fashion.

At half past nine punctually, there was a little tap on the window, and I rose and admitted Miss Marple.

She had a very fine Shetland shawl thrown over her head and shoulders and was looking rather old and frail. She came in full of little fluttering remarks.

âSo good of you to let me comeâand so good of dear GriseldaâRaymond admires her so muchâthe perfect Greuze he always calls her â¦ No, I wonât have a footstool.â

I deposited the Shetland shawl on a chair and returned to take a chair facing my guest. We looked at each other, and a little deprecating smile broke out on her face.

âI feel that you must be wondering whyâwhy I am so interested in all this. You may possibly think itâs very unwomanly. NoâpleaseâI should like to explain if I may.â

She paused a moment, a pink colour suffusing her cheeks.

âYou see,â she began at last, âliving alone, as I do, in a rather out-of-the-way part of the world, one has to have a hobby. There is, of course, woolwork, and Guides, and Welfare, and sketching, but my hobby isâand always has beenâHuman Nature. So variedâand so very fascinating. And, of course, in a small village, with nothing to distract one, one has such ample opportunity for becoming what I might call proficient in oneâs study. One begins to class people, quite definitely, just as though they were birds or flowers, group so-and-so, genus this, species that. Sometimes, of course, one makes mistakes, but less and less as time goes on. And then, too, one tests oneself. One takes a little problemâfor instance, the gill of picked shrimps that amused dear Griselda so muchâa quite unimportant mystery but absolutely incomprehensible unless one solves it right. And then there was that matter of the changed cough drops, and the butcherâs wifeâs umbrellaâthe last absolutely meaningless unless on the assumption that the greengrocer was not behaving at all nicely with the chemistâs wifeâwhich, of course, turned out to be the case. It is so fascinating, you know, to apply oneâs judgment and find that one is right.â

âYou usually are, I believe,â I said smiling.

âThat, I am afraid, is what has made me a little conceited,â confessed Miss Marple. âBut I have always wondered whether, if some day a really big mystery came along, I should be able to do the same thing. I meanâjust solve it correctly. Logically, it ought to be exactly the same thing. After all, a tiny working model of a torpedo is just the same as a real torpedo.â

âYou mean itâs all a question of relativity,â I said slowly. âIt should beâlogically, I admit. But I donât know whether it really is.â

âSurely it must be the same,â said Miss Marple. âTheâwhat one used to call the factors at schoolâare the same. Thereâs money, and the mutual attraction people of anâerâopposite sexâand thereâs queerness of courseâso many people are a little queer, arenât they?âin fact, most people are when you know them well. And normal people do such astonishing things sometimes, and abnormal people are sometimes so very sane and ordinary. In fact, the only way is to compare people with other people you have known or come across. Youâd be surprised if you knew how very few distinct types there are in all.â

âYou frighten me,â I said. âI feel Iâm being put under the microscope.â

âOf course, I wouldnât dream of saying any of this to Colonel Melchettâsuch an autocratic man, isnât he?âand poor Inspector Slackâwell, heâs exactly like the young lady in the boot shop who wants to sell you patent leather because sheâs got it in your size, and doesnât take any notice of the fact that you want brown calf.â

That, really, is a very good description of Slack.

âBut you, Mr. Clement, know, Iâm sure, quite as much about the crime as Inspector Slack. I thought, if we could work togetherââ

âI wonder,â I said. âI think each one of us in his secret heart fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes.â

Then I told her of the three summonses I had received that afternoon. I told her of Anneâs discovery of the picture with the slashed face. I also told her of Miss Cramâs attitude at the police station, and I described Haydockâs identification of the crystal I had picked up.

âHaving found that myself,â I finished up, âI should like it to be important. But itâs probably got nothing to do with the case.â

âI have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the library lately,â said Miss Marple, âhoping to find them helpful.â

âWas there anything in them about picric acid?â

âIâm afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which a man was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as an ointment.â

âBut as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesnât seem to enter into the question,â I said.

Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.

âIâve tried,â I said, âto recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly as possible.â

MY SCHEDULE

Thursday, 21st inst.

12:30 p.m.âColonel Protheroe alters his appointment from six to six fifteen. Overheard by half village very probably.

12:45âPistol last seen in its proper place. (But this is doubtful, as Mrs. Archer had previously said she could not remember.)

5:30 (approx.)âColonel and Mrs. Protheroe leave Old Hall for village in car.

5:30 Fake call put through to me from the North Lodge, Old Hall.

6:15 (or a minute or two earlier)âColonel Protheroe arrives at Vicarage. Is shown into study by Mary.

6:20âMrs. Protheroe comes along back lane and across garden to study window. Colonel Protheroe not visible.

6:29âCall from Lawrence Reddingâs cottage put through to Mrs. Price Ridley (according to Exchange).

6:30â6:35âShot heard. (Accepting telephone call time as correct.) Lawrence Redding, Anne Protheroe and Dr. Stoneâs evidence seem to point to its being earlier, but Mrs. P.R. probably right.

6:45âLawrence Redding arrives Vicarage and finds the body.

6:48âI meet Lawrence Redding.

6:49âBody discovered by me.

6:55âHaydock examines body.

NOTE.âThe only two people who have no kind of alibi for 6:30â6:35 are Miss Cram and Mrs. Lestrange. Miss Cram says she was at the barrow, but no confirmation. It seems reasonable, however, to dismiss her from case as there seems nothing to connect her with it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr. Haydockâs house some time after six to keep an appointment. Where was the appointment, and with whom? It could hardly have been with Colonel Protheroe, as he expected to be engaged with me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange was near the spot at the time the crime was committed, but it seems doubtful what motive she could have had for murdering him. She did not gain by his death, and the Inspectorâs theory of blackmail I cannot accept. Mrs. Lestrange is not that kind of woman. Also it seems unlikely that she should have got hold of Lawrence Reddingâs pistol.

âVery clear,â said Miss Marple, nodding her head in approval. âVery clear indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda.â

âYou agree with what I have written?â I asked.

âOh, yesâyou have put it all beautifully.â

I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.

âMiss Marple,â I said. âWho do you suspect? You once said that there were seven people.â

âQuite that, I should think,â said Miss Marple absently. âI expect every one of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they do.â

She didnât ask me who I suspected.

âThe point is,â she said, âthat one must provide an explanation for everything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If you have a theory that fits every factâwell, then, it must be the right one. But thatâs extremely difficult. If it wasnât for that noteââ

âThe note?â I said, surprised.

âYes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along. Itâs wrong, somehow.â

âSurely,â I said, âthat is explained now. It was written at six thirty five and another handâthe murdererâsâput the misleading 6:20 at the top. I think that is clearly established.â

âBut even then,â said Miss Marple, âitâs all wrong.â

âBut why?â

âListen.â Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. âMrs. Protheroe passed my garden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and she looked in and she didnât see Colonel Protheroe.â

âBecause he was writing at the desk,â I said.

âAnd thatâs whatâs all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreed that he wouldnât sit down to say he couldnât wait any longer until after half past sixâso, why was he sitting at the writing table then?â

âI never thought of that,â I said slowly.

âLet us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes to the window and she thinks the room is emptyâshe must have thought so, because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to meet Mr. Redding. It wouldnât have been safe. The room must have been absolutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three alternatives, doesnât it?â

âYou meanââ

âWell, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was dead alreadyâbut I donât think thatâs the most likely one. To begin with heâd only been there about five minutes and she or I would have heard the shot, and secondly, the same difficulty remains about his being at the writing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was sitting at the writing table writing a note, but in that case it must have been a different note altogether. It canât have been to say he couldnât wait. And the thirdââ

âYes?â I said.

âWell, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that the room was actually empty.â

âYou mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again and came back later?â

âYes.â

âBut why should he have done that?â

Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.

âThat would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,â I said.

âOne so often has to do thatâabout everything. Donât you think so?â

I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three alternatives that Miss Marple had suggested.

With a slight sigh the old lady rose to her feet.

âI must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little chatâthough we havenât got very far, have we?â

âTo tell you the truth,â I said, as I fetched her shawl, âthe whole thing seems to me a bewildering maze.â

âOh! I wouldnât say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearly everything. That is, if you admit one coincidenceâand I think one coincidence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely.â

âDo you really think that? About the theory, I mean?â I asked, looking at her.

âI admit that there is one flaw in my theoryâone fact that I canât get over. Oh! If only that note had been something quite differentââ

She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and absentmindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed-looking plant that stood in a stand.

âYou know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poor thing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I suppose it is she who attends to it?â

âAs much,â I said, âas she attends to anything.â

âA little raw at present,â suggested Miss Marple.

âYes,â I said. âAnd Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to sack her. Her idea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with us. However, Mary herself gave us notice the other day.â

âIndeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both.â

âI havenât noticed it,â I said. âBut, as a matter of fact, it was Lettice Protheroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in rather a temperamental state and found Lettice here andâwell, they had words.â

âOh!â said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the window when she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passed over her face.

âOh, dear!â she muttered to herself. âI have been stupid. So that was it. Perfectly possible all the time.â

âI beg your pardon?â

She turned a worried face upon me.

âNothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home and think things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been extremely stupidâalmost incredibly so.â

âI find that hard to believe,â I said gallantly.

I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.

âCan you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?â I asked.

âI would rather notâjust at present. You see, there is still a possibility that I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are at my garden gate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any further.â

âIs the note still a stumbling block?â I asked, as she passed through the gate and latched it behind her.

She looked at me abstractedly.

âThe note? Oh! Of course that wasnât the real note. I never thought it was. Goodnight, Mr. Clement.â

She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.

I didnât know what to think.

Twenty-seven

Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most natural thing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss Marple and fetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken up with our preoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten anybody existed in the world except ourselves.

I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not even now go over and join them, when the doorbell rang.

I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box, and presuming that this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.

As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter hastily into my pocket and opened the front door.

It was Colonel Melchett.

âHallo, Clement. Iâm on my way home from town in the car. Thought Iâd just look in and see if you could give me a drink.â

âDelighted,â I said. âCome into the study.â

He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me into the study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett was standing in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his closely cropped moustache.

âIâve got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing youâve ever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going down here? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?â

âTheyâre not doing so badly,â I said. âOne of them, at all events, thinks sheâs got there.â

âOur friend, Miss Marple, eh?â

âOur friend, Miss Marple.â

âWomen like that always think they know everything,â said Colonel Melchett.

He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.

âItâs probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,â I said. âBut I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murderer left by the front door, thereâs a chance the boy may have seen him.â

âSlack questioned him right enough,â said Melchett. âBut the boy says he didnât meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldnât be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at the Vicarage, at Haydockâs, and at Mrs. Price Ridleyâs. Easy enough to dodge him.â

âYes,â I said, âI suppose it would be.â

âOn the other hand,â went on Melchett, âif by any chance that rascal Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I doubt very much whether heâd let on. Archer is a cousin of his.â

âDo you seriously suspect Archer?â

âWell, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly. Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasnât Protheroeâs strong point.â

âNo,â I said. âHe was a very ruthless man.â

âWhat I say is,â said Melchett, âLive and let live. Of course, the lawâs the law, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the doubt. Thatâs what Protheroe never did.â

âHe prided himself on it,â I said.

There was a pause, and then I asked:

âWhat is this âastounding bit of newsâ you promised me?â

âWell, it is astounding. You know that unfinished letter that Protheroe was writing when he was killed?â

âYes.â

âWe got an expert on itâto say whether the 6:20 was added by a different hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroeâs handwriting. And do you know the verdict? That letter was never written by Protheroe at all.â

âYou mean a forgery?â

âItâs a forgery. The 6:20 they think is written in a different hand againâbut theyâre not sure about that. The heading is in a different ink, but the letter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it.â

âAre they certain?â

âWell, theyâre as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expert is! Oh! But theyâre sure enough.â

âAmazing,â I said. Then a memory assailed me.

âWhy,â I said, âI remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasnât like her husbandâs handwriting at all, and I took no notice.â

âReally?â

âI thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If there seemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written that note.â

We looked at each other.

âItâs curious,â I said slowly. âMiss Marple was saying this evening that that note was all wrong.â

âConfound the woman, she couldnât know more about it if she had committed the murder herself.â

At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psychology about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind of sinister significance.

I went over and took up the receiver.

âThis is the Vicarage,â I said. âWhoâs speaking?â

A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:

âI want to confess,â it said. âMy God, I want to confess.â

âHallo,â I said, âhallo. Look here youâve cut me off. What number was that?â

A languid voice said it didnât know. It added that it was sorry I had been troubled.

I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.

âYou once said,â I remarked, âthat you would go mad if anyone else accused themselves of the crime.â

âWhat about it?â

âThat was someone who wanted to confess â¦ And the Exchange has cut us off.â

Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.

âIâll speak to them.â

âDo,â I said. âYou may have some effect. Iâll leave you to it. Iâm going out. Iâve a fancy I recognized that voice.â

Twenty-eight

I hurried down the village street. It was eleven oâclock, and at eleven oâclock on a Sunday night the whole village of St. Mary Mead might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Hawes was still up, I stopped and rang the doorbell.

After what seemed a long time, Hawesâs landlady, Mrs. Sadler, laboriously unfastened two bolts, a chain, and turned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.

âWhy, itâs Vicar!â she exclaimed.

âGood evening,â I said. âI want to see Mr. Hawes. I see thereâs a light in the window, so heâs up still.â

âThat may be. Iâve not seen him since I took up his supper. Heâs had a quiet eveningâno one to see him, and heâs not been out.â

I nodded, and passing her, went quickly up the stairs. Hawes has a bedroom and sitting room on the first floor.

I passed into the latter. Hawes was lying back in a long chair asleep. My entrance did not wake him. An empty cachet box and a glass of water, half full, stood beside him.

On the floor, by his left foot, was a crumpled sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up and straightened it out.

It began: âMy dear Clementââ

I read it through, uttered an exclamation and shoved it into my pocket. Then I bent over Hawes and studied him attentively.

Next, reaching for the telephone which stood by his elbow, I gave the number of the Vicarage. Melchett must have been still trying to trace the call, for I was told that the number was engaged. Asking them to call me, I put the instrument down again.

I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I had found in the letter box and which was still unopened.

Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous letter that had come that afternoon.

I tore it open.

I read it onceâtwiceâunable to realize its contents.

I was beginning to read it a third time when the telephone rang. Like a man in a dream I picked up the receiver and spoke.

âHallo?â

âHallo.â

âIs that you, Melchett?â

âYes, where are you? Iâve traced that call. The number isââ

âI know the number.â

âOh, good! Is that where you are speaking from?â

âYes.â

âWhat about that confession?â

âIâve got the confession all right.â

âYou mean youâve got the murderer?â

I had then the strongest temptation of my life. I looked at the anonymous scrawl. I looked at the empty cachet box with the name of Cherubim on it. I remembered a certain casual conversation.

I made an immense effort.

âIâdonât know,â I said. âYouâd better come round.â

And I gave him the address.

Then I sat down in the chair opposite Hawes to think.

I had two clear minutes to do so.

In two minutesâ time, Melchett would have arrived.

I took up the anonymous letter and read it through again for the third time.

Then I closed my eyes and thoughtâ¦.

Twenty-nine

I donât know how long I sat thereâonly a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room.

He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me.

âWhatâs this, Clement? What does it all mean?â

Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice.

âMy dear Clement,âIt is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent peculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made andââ

He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writerâs hand.

Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes.

âSo thatâs the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!â

âHeâs been very queer lately,â I said.

Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence.

âHeâs not asleep! Heâs drugged! Whatâs the meaning of this?â

His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up.

âHas heââ

âI think so,â I said. âHe showed me these the other day. Told me heâd been warned against an overdose. Itâs his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. Itâs not for us to judge him.â

But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged.

In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydockâs number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair.

âHalloâhalloâhalloâis that Dr. Haydockâs? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes. Itâs urgent â¦ whatâs that?â¦ Well, what number is it then?â¦ Oh, sorry.â

He rang off, fuming.

âWrong number, wrong numberâalways wrong numbers! And a manâs life hanging on it. HALLOâyou gave me the wrong number â¦ Yesâdonât waste timeâgive me three nineânine, not five.â

Another period of impatienceâshorter this time.

âHalloâis that you, Haydock? Melchett speaking. Come to 19 High Street at once, will you? Hawes has taken some kind of overdose. At once, man, itâs vital.â

He rang off, strode impatiently up and down the room.

âWhy on earth you didnât get hold of the doctor at once, Clement, I cannot think. Your wits must have all gone wool gathering.â

Fortunately it never occurs to Melchett that anyone can possibly have different ideas on conduct to those he holds himself. I said nothing, and he went on:

âWhere did you find this letter?â

âCrumpled on the floorâwhere it had fallen from his hand.â

âExtraordinary businessâthat old maid was right about its being the wrong note we found. Wonder how she tumbled to that. But what an ass the fellow was not to destroy this one. Fancy keeping itâthe most damaging evidence you can imagine!â

âHuman nature is full of inconsistencies.â

âIf it werenât, I doubt if we should ever catch a murderer! Sooner or later they always do some fool thing. Youâre looking very under the weather, Clement. I suppose this has been the most awful shock to you?â

âIt has. As I say, Hawes has been queer in his manner for some time, but I never dreamedââ

âWho would? Hallo, that sounds like a car.â He went across to the window, pushing up the sash and leaning out. âYes, itâs Haydock all right.â

A moment later the doctor entered the room.

In a few succinct words, Melchett explained the situation.

Haydock is not a man who ever shows his feelings. He merely raised his eyebrows, nodded, and strode across to his patient. He felt his pulse, raised the eyelid and looked intently at the eye.

Then he turned to Melchett.

âWant to save him for the gallows?â he asked. âHeâs pretty far gone, you know. It will be touch and go, anyway. I doubt if I can bring him round.â

âDo everything possible.â

âRight.â

He busied himself with the case he had brought with him, preparing a hypodermic injection which he injected into Hawesâs arm. Then he stood up.

âBest thing is to run him into Much Benhamâto the hospital there. Give me a hand to get him down to the car.â

We both lent our assistance. As Haydock climbed into the driving seat, he threw a parting remark over his shoulder.

âYou wonât be able to hang him, you know, Melchett.â

âYou mean he wonât recover?â

âMay or may not. I didnât mean that. I mean that even if he does recoverâwell, the poor devil wasnât responsible for his actions. I shall give evidence to that effect.â

âWhat did he mean by that?â asked Melchett as we went upstairs again.

I explained that Hawes had been a victim of encephalitis lethargica.

âSleepy sickness, eh? Always some good reason nowadays for every dirty action thatâs done. Donât you agree?â

âScience is teaching us a lot.â

âScience be damnedâI beg your pardon, Clement; but all this namby pambyism annoys me. Iâm a plan man. Well, I suppose weâd better have a look round here.â

But at this moment there was an interruptionâand a most amazing one. The door opened and Miss Marple walked into the room.

She was pink and somewhat flustered, and seemed to realize our condition of bewilderment.

âSo sorryâso very sorryâto intrudeâgood evening, Colonel Melchett. As I say, I am so sorry, but hearing that Mr. Hawes was taken ill, I felt I must come round and see if I couldnât do something.â

She paused. Colonel Melchett was regarding her in a somewhat disgusted fashion.

âVery kind of you, Miss Marple,â he said dryly. âBut no need to trouble. How did you know, by the way?â

It was the question I had been yearning to ask!

âThe telephone,â explained Miss Marple. âSo careless with their wrong numbers, arenât they? You spoke to me first, thinking I was Dr. Haydock. My number is three five.â

âSo that was it!â I exclaimed.

There is always some perfectly good and reasonable explanation for Miss Marpleâs omniscience.

âAnd so,â she continued. âI just came round to see if I could be of any use.â

âVery kind of you,â said Melchett again, even more dryly this time. âBut nothing to be done. Haydockâs taken him off to hospital.â

âActually to hospital? Oh, thatâs a great relief! I am so very glad to hear it. Heâll be quite safe there. When you say ânothing to be done,â you donât mean that he wonât recover?â

âItâs very doubtful,â I said.

Miss Marpleâs eyes had gone to the cachet box.

âI suppose he took an overdose?â she said.

Melchett, I think, was in favour of being reticent. Perhaps I might have been under other circumstances. But my discussion of the case with Miss Marple was too fresh in my mind for me to have the same view, though I must admit that her rapid appearance on the scene and eager curiosity repelled me slightly.

âYou had better look at this,â I said, and handed her Protheroeâs unfinished letter.

She took it and read it without any appearance of surprise.

âYou had already deduced something of the kind, had you not?â I asked.

âYesâyes, indeed. May I ask you, Mr. Clement, what made you come here this evening? That is a point which puzzles me. You and Colonel Melchettânot at all what I should have expected.â

I explained the telephone call and that I believed I had recognized Hawesâs voice. Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully.

âVery interesting. Very providentialâif I may use the term. Yes, it brought you here in the nick of time.â

âIn the nick of time for what?â I said bitterly.

Miss Marple looked surprised.

âTo save Mr. Hawesâs life, of course.â

âDonât you think,â I said, âthat it might be better if Hawes didnât recover? Better for himâbetter for everyone. We know the truth now andââ

I stoppedâfor Miss Marple was nodding her head with such a peculiar vehemence that it made me lose the thread of what I was saying.

âOf course,â she said. âOf course! Thatâs what he wants you to think! That you know the truthâand that itâs best for everyone as it is. Oh, yes, it all fits inâthe letter, and the overdose, and poor Mr. Hawesâs state of mind and his confession. It all fits inâbut itâs wrongâ¦.â

We stared at her.

âThatâs why I am so glad Mr. Hawes is safeâin hospitalâwhere no one can get at him. If he recovers, heâll tell you the truth.â

âThe truth?â

âYesâthat he never touched a hair of Colonel Protheroeâs head.â

âBut the telephone call,â I said. âThe letterâthe overdose. Itâs all so clear.â

âThatâs what he wants you to think. Oh, heâs very clever! Keeping the letter and using it this way was very clever indeed.â

âWho do you mean,â I said, âby âheâ?â

âI mean the murderer,â said Miss Marple.

She added very quietly:

âI mean Mr. Lawrence Reddingâ¦.â

Thirty

We stared at her. I really think that for a moment or two we really believed she was out of her mind. The accusation seemed so utterly preposterous.

Colonel Melchett was the first to speak. He spoke kindly and with a kind of pitying tolerance.

âThat is absurd, Miss Marple,â he said. âYoung Redding has been completely cleared.â

âNaturally,â said Miss Marple. âHe saw to that.â

âOn the contrary,â said Colonel Melchett dryly. âHe did his best to get himself accused of the murder.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple. âHe took us all in that wayâmyself as much as anyone else. You will remember, dear Mr. Clement, that I was quite taken aback when I heard Mr. Redding had confessed to the crime. It upset all my ideas and made me think him innocentâwhen up to then I had felt convinced that he was guilty.â

âThen it was Lawrence Redding you suspected?â

âI know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I never find that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the obvious that is true. Much as I have always liked Mrs. Protheroe, I could not avoid coming to the conclusion that she was completely under Mr. Reddingâs thumb and would do anything he told her, and, of course, he is not the kind of young man who would dream of running away with a penniless woman. From his point of view it was necessary that Colonel Protheroe should be removedâand so he removed him. One of those charming young men who have no moral sense.â

Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now he broke out.

âAbsolute nonsenseâthe whole thing! Reddingâs time is fully accounted for up to 6:50 and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldnât have been shot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or do you suggest that Haydock is deliberately lyingâthe Lord knows why?â

âI think Dr. Haydockâs evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very upright man. And, of course, it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot Colonel Protheroeânot Mr. Redding.â

Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushed back the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver a gentle old-maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements in the most natural way in the world.

âI have not thought it right to speak until now. Oneâs own beliefâeven so strong as to amount to knowledgeâis not the same as proof. And unless one has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I was saying to dear Mr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance it with any real conviction. And my own explanation was not quite completeâit lacked just one thingâbut suddenly, just as I was leaving Mr. Clementâs study, I noticed the palm in the pot by the windowâandâwell, there the whole thing was! Clear as daylight!â

âMadâquite mad,â murmured Melchett to me.

But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle ladylike voice.

âI was very sorry to believe what I didâvery sorry. Because I liked them both. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when first he and then she both confessed in the most foolish wayâwell, I was more relieved than I could say. I had been wrong. And I began to think of other people who had a possible motive for wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the way.â

âThe seven suspects!â I murmured.

She smiled at me.

âYes, indeed. There was that man Archerânot likely, but primed with drink (so inflaming) you never know. And, of course, there was your Mary. Sheâs been walking out with Archer a long time, and sheâs a queer-tempered girl. Motive and opportunityâwhy, she was alone in the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Reddingâs house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was Letticeâwanting freedom and money to do as she liked. Iâve known many cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scrupleâthough, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them.â

I winced.

âAnd then there was the tennis racquet,â continued Miss Marple.

âThe tennis racquet?â

âYes, the one Mrs. Price Ridleyâs Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motiveâfor Letticeâs sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and youânot both of you naturallyâbut alternatively, as the lawyers say.â

âMe?â I exclaimed in lively astonishment.

âWell, yes. I do apologizeâand indeed I never really thoughtâbut there was the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in faultâprincipally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawesâhe reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldnât be absolutely sureââ

âHuman nature being what it is,â I ended grimly.

âExactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda.â

âBut Mrs. Clement was completely out of it,â interrupted Melchett. âShe returned by the 6:50 train.â

âThatâs what she said,â retorted Miss Marple. âOne should never go by what people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?â

She looked at me inquiringly.

Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Reddingâs cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day.

I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare termsâa past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroeâs ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the factsâand Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I sayâa nightmare onlyâbut invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.

I donât know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.

She handed me back the note with a little nod.

âThatâs been all over the village,â she said. âAnd it did look rather suspicious, didnât it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.â

She paused a minute and then went on.

âBut Iâm wandering terribly from the point. What I want to sayâand believe it my dutyâis to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you donât believe itâwell, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life.â

Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided.

âThat is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five thirty, Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the Vicar, adopting a womanâs voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).

âMrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. Andâa very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way)âMrs. Protheroe took no handbag with her. Really a most unusual thing for a woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my garden and stops and speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of noticing that she has no weapon with her and also that she is quite her normal self. They realized, you see, that I am a noticing kind of person. She disappears round the corner of the house to the study window. The poor Colonel is sitting at the desk writing his letter to you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pistol from the bowl where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him and shoots him through the head, throws down the pistol and is out again like a flash, and going down the garden to the studio. Nearly anyone would swear that there couldnât have been time!â

âBut the shot?â objected the Colonel. âYou didnât hear the shot?â

âThere is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I gather from detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze that the maid, Clara, heard might have actually been the shot? But no matter. Mrs. Protheroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in togetherâand, human nature being what it is, Iâm afraid they realize that I shanât leave the garden till they come out again!â

I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her humorous perception of her own weakness.

âWhen they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. And there, in reality, they made a mistake. Because if they had really said good-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked very different. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply dare not appear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are careful to provide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe. Finally Mr. Redding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he dares. He probably saw you on the footpath from far away and was able to time matters nicely. He picks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves the forged letter with the time on it written in a different ink and apparently in a different handwriting. When the forgery is discovered it will look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate Anne Protheroe.

âBut when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written by Colonel Protheroeâsomething quite unexpected. And being a very intelligent young man, and seeing that this letter may come in very useful to him, he takes it away with him. He alters the hands of the clock to the same time as the letterâknowing that it is always kept a quarter of an hour fast. The same ideaâattempt to throw suspicion on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves, meeting you outside the gate, and acting the part of someone nearly distraught. As I say, he is really most intelligent. What would a murderer who had committed a crime try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So that is just what Mr. Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, but marches into the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ridiculous self-accusation which takes everybody in.â

There was something fascinating in Miss Marpleâs resumÃ© of the case. She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that in this way and in no other could the crime have been committed.

âWhat about the shot heard in the wood?â I asked. âWas that the coincidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?â

âOh, dear, no!â Miss Marple shook her head briskly. âThat wasnât a coincidenceâvery far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a shot should be heardâotherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might have continued. How Mr. Redding arranged it, I donât quite know. But I understand that picric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it, and you will remember, dear Vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying a large stone just in the part of the wood where you picked up that crystal later. Gentlemen are so clever at arranging thingsâthe stone suspended above the crystals and then a time fuseâor do I mean a slow match? Something that would take about twenty minutes to burn throughâso that the explosion would come about 6:30 when he and Mrs. Protheroe had come out of the studio and were in full view. A very safe device because what would there be to find afterwardsâonly a big stone! But even that he tried to removeâwhen you came upon him.â

âI believe you are right,â I exclaimed, remembering the start of surprise Lawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed natural enough at the time, but nowâ¦.

Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her head shrewdly.

âYes,â she said, âit must have been a very nasty shock for him to come across you just then. But he turned it off very wellâpretending he was bringing it to me for my rock gardens. Onlyââ Miss Marple became suddenly very emphatic. âIt was the wrong sort of stone for my rock gardens! And that put me on the right track!â

All this time Colonel Melchett had sat like a man in a trance. Now he showed signs of coming to. He snorted once or twice, blew his nose in a bewildered fashion, and said:

âUpon my word! Well, upon my word!â

Beyond that, he did not commit himself. I think that he, like myself, was impressed with the logical certainty of Miss Marpleâs conclusions. But for the moment he was not willing to admit it.

Instead, he stretched out a hand, picked up the crumpled letter and barked out:

âAll very well. But how do you account for this fellow Hawes! Why, he actually rang up and confessed.â

âYes, that was what was so providential. The Vicarâs sermon, doubtless. You know, dear Mr. Clement, you really preached a most remarkable sermon. It must have affected Mr. Hawes deeply. He could bear it no longer, and felt he must confessâabout the misappropriations of the church funds.â

âWhat?â

âYesâand that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I hope and trust it is saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the matter, Mr. Redding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect he hid it in some safe place) and waited till he found out for certain to whom it referred. He soon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes. I understand he came back here with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a long time with him. I suspect that he then substituted a cachet of his own for one of Mr. Hawesâs, and slipped this letter in the pocket of Mr. Hawesâs dressing gown. The poor young man would swallow the fatal cachet in all innocenceâafter his death his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclusion that he had shot Colonel Protheroe and taken his own life out of remorse. I rather fancy Mr. Hawes must have found that letter tonight just after taking the fatal cachet. In his disordered state, it must have seemed like something supernatural, and, coming on top of the Vicarâs sermon, it must have impelled him to confess the whole thing.â

âUpon my word,â said Colonel Melchett. âUpon my word! Most extraordinary! IâIâdonât believe a word of it.â

He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. It must have sounded so in his own ears, for he went on:

âAnd can you explain the other telephone callâthe one from Mr. Reddingâs cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?â

âAh!â said Miss Marple. âThat is what I call the coincidence. Dear Griselda sent that callâshe and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy. They had heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about the Vicar, and they thought of this (perhaps rather childish) way of silencing her. The coincidence lies in the fact that the call should have been put through at exactly the same time as the fake shot from the wood. It led one to believe that the two must be connected.â

I suddenly remembered how everyone who spoke of that shot had described it as âdifferentâ from the usual shot. They had been right. Yet how hard to explain just in what way the âdifferenceâ of the shot consisted.

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

âYour solution is a very plausible one, Miss Marple,â he said. âBut you will allow me to point out that there is not a shadow of proof.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âBut you believe it to be true, donât you?â

There was a pause, then the Colonel said almost reluctantly:

âYes, I do. Dash it all, itâs the only way the thing could have happened. But thereâs no proofânot an atom.â

Miss Marple coughed.

âThat is why I thought perhaps under the circumstancesââ

âYes?â

âA little trap might be permissable.â

Thirty-one

Colonel Melchett and I both stared at her.

âA trap? What kind of a trap?â

Miss Marple was a little diffident, but it was clear that she had a plan fully outlined.

âSupposing Mr. Redding were to be rung up on the telephone and warned.â

Colonel Melchett smiled.

ââAll is discovered. Fly!â Thatâs an old wheeze, Miss Marple. Not that it isnât often successful! But I think in this case young Redding is too downy a bird to be caught that way.â

âIt would have to be something specific. I quite realize that,â said Miss Marple. âI would suggestâthis is just a mere suggestionâthat the warning should come from somebody who is known to have rather unusual views on these matters. Dr. Haydockâs conversation would lead anyone to suppose that he might view such a thing as murder from an unusual angle. If he were to hint that somebodyâMrs. Sadlerâor one of her childrenâhad actually happened to see the transposing of the cachetsâwell, of course, if Mr. Redding is an innocent man, that statement will mean nothing to him, but if he isnâtââ

âWell, he might just possibly do something foolish.â

âAnd deliver himself into our hands. Itâs possible. Very ingenious, Miss Marple. But will Haydock stand for it? As you say, his viewsââ

Miss Marple interrupted him brightly.

âOh, but thatâs theory! So very different from practice, isnât it? But anyway, here he is, so we can ask him.â

Haydock was, I think, rather astonished to find Miss Marple with us. He looked tired and haggard.

âItâs been a near thing,â he said. âA very near thing. But heâs going to pull through. Itâs a doctorâs business to save his patient and I saved him, but Iâd have been just as glad if I hadnât pulled it off.â

âYou may think differently,â said Melchett, âwhen you have heard what we have to tell you.â

And briefly and succinctly, he put Miss Marpleâs theory of the crime before the doctor, ending up with her final suggestion.

We were then privileged to see exactly what Miss Marple meant by the difference between theory and practice.

Haydockâs views appeared to have undergone a complete transformation. He would, I think, have liked Lawrence Reddingâs head on a charger. It was not, I imagine, the murder of Colonel Protheroe that so stirred his rancour. It was the assault on the unlucky Hawes.

âThe damned scoundrel,â said Haydock. âThe damned scoundrel! That poor devil Hawes. Heâs got a mother and a sister too. The stigma of being the mother and sister of a murderer would have rested on them for life, and think of their mental anguish. Of all the cowardly dastardly tricks!â

For sheer primitive rage, commend me to a thoroughgoing humanitarian when you get him well roused.

âIf this thingâs true,â he said, âyou can count on me. The fellowâs not fit to live. A defenceless chap like Hawes.â

A lame dog of any kind can always count on Haydockâs sympathy.

He was eagerly arranging details with Melchett when Miss Marple rose and I insisted on seeing her home.

âIt is most kind of you, Mr. Clement,â said Miss Marple, as we walked down the deserted street. âDear me, past twelve oâclock. I hope Raymond has gone to bed and not waited up.â

âHe should have accompanied you,â I said.

âI didnât let him know I was going,â said Miss Marple.

I smiled suddenly as I remembered Raymond Westâs subtle psychological analysis of the crime.

âIf your theory turns out to be the truthâwhich I for one do not doubt for a minute,â I said, âyou will have a very good score over your nephew.â

Miss Marple smiled alsoâan indulgent smile.

âI remember a saying of my Great Aunt Fannyâs. I was sixteen at the time and thought it particularly foolish.â

âYes?â I inquired.

âShe used to say: âThe young people think the old people are fools; but the old people know the young people are fools!ââ

Thirty-two

There is little more to be told. Miss Marpleâs plan succeeded. Lawrence Redding was not an innocent man, and the hint of a witness of the change of capsule did indeed cause him to do âsomething foolish.â Such is the power of an evil conscience.

He was, of course, peculiarly placed. His first impulse, I imagine, must have been to cut and run. But there was his accomplice to consider. He could not leave without getting word to her, and he dared not wait till morning. So he went up to Old Hall that nightâand two of Colonel Melchettâs most efficient officers followed him. He threw gravel at Anne Protheroeâs window, aroused her, and an urgent whisper brought her down to speak with him. Doubtless they felt safer outside than inâwith the possibility of Lettice waking. But as it happened, the two police officers were able to overhear the conversation in full. It left the matter in no doubt. Miss Marple had been right on every count.

The trial of Lawrence Redding and Anne Protheroe is a matter of public knowledge. I do not propose to go into it. I will only mention that great credit was reflected upon Inspector Slack, whose zeal and intelligence had resulted in the criminals being brought to justice. Naturally, nothing was said of Miss Marpleâs share in the business. She herself would have been horrified at the thought of such a thing.

Lettice came to see me just before the trial took place. She drifted through my study window, wraithlike as ever. She told me then that she had all along been convinced of her stepmotherâs complicity. The loss of the yellow beret had been a mere excuse for searching the study. She hoped against hope that she might find something the police had overlooked.

âYou see,â she said in her dreamy voice, âthey didnât hate her like I did. And hate makes things easier for you.â

Disappointed in the result of her search, she had deliberately dropped Anneâs earring by the desk.

âSince I knew she had done it, what did it matter? One way was as good as another. She had killed him.â

I sighed a little. There are always some things that Lettice will never see. In some respects she is morally colour blind.

âWhat are you going to do, Lettice?â I asked.

âWhenâwhen itâs all over, I am going abroad.â She hesitated and then went on. âI am going abroad with my mother.â

I looked up, startled.

She nodded.

âDidnât you ever guess? Mrs. Lestrange is my mother. She isâis dying, you know. She wanted to see me and so she came down here under an assumed name. Dr. Haydock helped her. Heâs a very old friend of hersâhe was keen about her onceâyou can see that! In a way, he still is. Men always went batty about mother, I believe. Sheâs awfully attractive even now. Anyway, Dr. Haydock did everything he could to help her. She didnât come down here under her own name because of the disgusting way people talk and gossip. She went to see father that night and told him she was dying and had a great longing to see something of me. Father was a beast. He said sheâd forfeited all claim, and that I thought she was deadâas though I had ever swallowed that story! Men like father never see an inch before their noses!

âBut mother is not the sort to give in. She thought it only decent to go to father first, but when he turned her down so brutally she sent a note to me, and I arranged to leave the tennis party early and meet her at the end of the footpath at a quarter past six. We just had a hurried meeting and arranged when to meet again. We left each other before half past six. Afterwards I was terrified that she would be suspected of having killed father. After all, she had got a grudge against him. Thatâs why I got hold of that old picture of her up in the attic and slashed it about. I was afraid the police might go nosing about and get hold of it and recognize it. Dr. Haydock was frightened too. Sometimes, I believe, he really thought she had done it! Mother is rather aâdesperate kind of person. She doesnât count consequences.â

She paused.

âItâs queer. She and I belong to each other. Father and I didnât. But motherâwell, anyway, Iâm going abroad with her. I shall be with her tillâtill the endâ¦.â

She got up and I took her hand.

âGod bless you both,â I said. âSome day, I hope, there is a lot of happiness coming to you, Lettice.â

âThere should be,â she said, with an attempt at a laugh. âThere hasnât been much so farâhas there? Oh, well, I donât suppose it matters. Good-bye, Mr. Clement. Youâve been frightfully decent to me alwaysâyou and Griselda.â

Griselda!

I had to own to her how terribly the anonymous letter had upset me, and first she laughed, and then solemnly read me a lecture.

âHowever,â she added, âIâm going to be very sober and Godfearing in futureâquite like the Pilgrim fathers.â

I did not see Griselda in the rÃ´le of a Pilgrim father.

She went on:

âYou see, Len, I have a steadying influence coming into my life. Itâs coming into your life, too, but in your case it will be a kind ofâof rejuvenating oneâat least, I hope so! You canât call me a dear child half so much when we have a real child of our own. And, Len, Iâve decided that now Iâm going to be a real âwife and motherâ (as they say in books), I must be a housekeeper too. Iâve bought two books on Household Management and one on Mother Love, and if that doesnât turn me out a pattern I donât know what will! They are all simply screamingly funnyânot intentionally, you know. Especially the one about bringing up children.â

âYou havenât bought a book on How to Treat a Husband, have you?â I asked, with sudden apprehension as I drew her to me.

âI donât need to,â said Griselda. âIâm a very good wife. I love you dearly. What more do you want?â

âNothing,â I said.

âCould you say, just for once, that you love me madly?â

âGriselda,â I saidââI adore you! I worship you! I am wildly, hopelessly and quite unclerically crazy about you!â

My wife gave a deep and contented sigh.

Then she drew away suddenly.

âBother! Hereâs Miss Marple coming. Donât let her suspect, will you? I donât want everyone offering me cushions and urging me to put my feet up. Tell her Iâve gone down to the golf links. That will put her off the scentâand itâs quite true because I left my yellow pullover there and I want it.â

Miss Marple came to the window, halted apologetically, and asked for Griselda.

âGriselda,â I said, âhas gone to the golf links.â

An expression of concern leaped into Miss Marpleâs eyes.

âOh, but surely,â she said, âthat is most unwiseâjust now.â

And then in a nice, old-fashioned, ladylike, maiden lady way, she blushed.

And to cover the momentâs confusion, we talked hurriedly of the Protheroe case, and of âDr. Stone,â who had turned out to be a well-known cracksman with several different aliases. Miss Cram, by the way, had been cleared of all complicity. She had at last admitted taking the suitcase to the wood, but had done so in all good faith, Dr. Stone having told her that he feared the rivalry of other archaeologists who would not stick at burglary to gain their object of discrediting his theories. The girl apparently swallowed this not very plausible story. She is now, according to the village, looking out for a more genuine article in the line of an elderly bachelor requiring a secretary.

As we talked, I wondered very much how Miss Marple had discovered our latest secret. But presently, in a discreet fashion, Miss Marple herself supplied me with a clue.

âI hope dear Griselda is not overdoing it,â she murmured, and, after a discreet pause, âI was in the bookshop in Much Benham yesterdayââ

Poor Griseldaâthat book on Mother Love has been her undoing!

âI wonder, Miss Marple,â I said suddenly, âif you were to commit a murder whether you would ever be found out.â

âWhat a terrible idea,â said Miss Marple, shocked. âI hope I could never do such a wicked thing.â

âBut human nature being what it is,â I murmured.

Miss Marple acknowledged the hit with a pretty old-ladyish laugh.

âHow naughty of you, Mr. Clement.â She rose. âBut naturally you are in good spirits.â

She paused by the window.

âMy love to dear Griseldaâand tell herâthat any little secret is quite safe with me.â

Really Miss Marple is rather a dearâ¦.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

Â 

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

Â 

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

Â 

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Back Ads

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® MARPLEÂ® MISS MARPLEÂ® THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGEâ„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. The Murder at the Vicarage was first published in 1930.

THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE Â© 1930. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207360-0

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174991-9

11 12 13 14 15

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

25 Ryde Road (P.O. Box 321)

Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

http://www.harpercollins.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1

Auckland, New Zealand

http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London, W6 8JB, UK

http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

10 East 53rd Street

New York, NY 10022

http://www.harpercollins.com