Our police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “the Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot—in the Vicarage.”
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:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
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.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can’t 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 calibre—say a Mauser .25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding’s admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
“Did you speak, sir?”
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.
“When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?”
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
“The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.”
Hurst turned to me. “Did the girl hear anything?”
“As far as I know she heard nothing,” I said. “But you had better ask her.”
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 subordinate’s notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
“Everything’s been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,” he said.
“I’ve touched nothing,” said Haydock.
“No more have I,” I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
“Ah!” he said in a tone of triumph. “Here’s what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That’ll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?”
“I said about half an hour, but—”
The Inspector consulted his watch.
“Five 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 to—Why, that brings it to the identical second almost!”
“I don’t guarantee the time absolutely,” said Haydock. “That is an approximate estimate.”
“Good enough, sir, good enough.”
I had been trying to get a word in.
“About the clock—”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll ask you any questions I want to know. Time’s short. What I want is absolute silence.”
“Yes, but I’d like to tell you—”
“Absolute silence,” said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.
He was still peering about the writing table.
“What was he sitting here for?” he grunted. “Did he want to write a note—Hallo—what’s this?”
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.
“Dear Clement”—it began—“Sorry I cannot wait any longer, but I must….”
Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said Inspector Slack triumphantly. “He 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?”
“I’d just like to say—” I began.
“Out of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.”
He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.
“I think you ought to know—” I said obstinately.
The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.
“We’ll go into all that later. I’d be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.”
We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.
Hours seemed to have passed—yet it was only a quarter past seven.
“Well,” said Haydock. “That’s that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.”
“The mistress is back,” said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. “Come in about five minutes ago.”
I found Griselda in the drawing room. She looked frightened, but excited.
I told her everything and she listened attentively.
“The letter is headed 6:20,” I ended. “And the clock fell over and has stopped at 6:22.”
“Yes,” said Griselda. “But that clock, didn’t you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t. He wouldn’t let me. I tried my best.” Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.
“But, Len,” she said, “that 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 don’t suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.”
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 “mulish.”
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:
“If you had only listened to me, Inspector Slack….”
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.
“It will be so awful for Anne Protheroe—with the police and everything,” she said. “Perhaps I might be able to do something for her.”
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.
“Fancy being right on the spot in a murder case,” he exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to be right in the midst of one. Why have the police locked up the study? Wouldn’t one of the other door keys fit it?”
I refused to allow any
thing 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 Dennis’s age a detective story is one of the best things in life, and to find a real detective story, complete with corpse, waiting on one’s 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 hour’s 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.
“He was quite decent in his way,” said Griselda grudgingly.
“How did Mrs. Protheroe take it?” I asked.
“Well—she was very quiet—but then she always is.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can’t imagine Anne Protheroe going into hysterics.”
“Of 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.”
“What about Lettice?”
“She was out playing tennis somewhere. She hadn’t got home yet.” There was a pause, and then Griselda said:
“You know, Len, she was really very quiet—very queer indeed.”
“The shock,” I suggested.
“Yes—I suppose so. And yet—” Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. “It wasn’t like that, somehow. She didn’t seem so much bowled over as—well—terrified.”
“Terrified?”
“Yes—not 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.”
“Did she?” I said thoughtfully.
“Yes. Of course Anne’s got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasn’t as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything.”
“Death alters one’s feelings sometimes,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
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 “study the latest developments,” as he said.
Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morning’s 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.
“Would you believe it? The baker’s just told me. They’ve arrested young Mr. Redding.”
“Arrested Lawrence,” cried Griselda incredulously. “Impossible. It must be some stupid mistake.”
“No mistake about it, mum,” said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. “Mr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and ‘I did it,’ he says. Just like that.”
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.
“Oh! It isn’t true,” said Griselda. “It can’t be true.”
She noticed my silence, and said: “Len, you don’t think it’s true?”
I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.
“He must be mad,” said Griselda. “Absolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?”
“That doesn’t sound at all a likely thing to happen.”
“But it must have been an accident of some kind. Because there’s not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?”
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.
“Remember they had had a quarrel,” I said.
“About Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but that’s absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretly—well, that’s not a reason for killing her father.”
“We don’t know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda.”
“You do believe it, Len! Oh! How can you! I tell you, I’m sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head.”
“Remember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman.”
“Yes, but—oh! It’s impossible.”
“There’s the clock, too,” I said. “This 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.”
“You’re wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. ‘Keeping the Vicar up to time!’ he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6:22. He’d have put the hands somewhere possible—like a quarter to seven.”
“He mayn’t have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast.”
Griselda disagreed.
“No, if you were committing a murder, you’d be awfully careful about things like that.”
“You don’t know, my dear,” I said mildly. “You’ve never done one.”
Before Griselda could reply, a shadow fell across the breakfast table, and a very gentle voice said:
“I hope I am not intruding. You must forgive me. But in the sad circumstances—the very sad circumstances….”
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.
“Very terrible, is it not? Poor Colonel Protheroe. Not a very pleasant man, perhaps, and not exactly popular, but it’s none the less sad for that. And actually shot in the Vicarage study, I understand?”
I said that that had indeed been the case.
“But the dear Vicar was not here at the time?” Miss Marple questioned of Griselda. I explained where I had been.
“Mr. Dennis is not with you this morning?” said Miss Marple, glancing round.
“Dennis,” said Griselda, “fancies 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.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Such a to-do, is it not? And Mr. Dennis thinks he knows who committed the crime. Well, I suppose we all think we know.”
“You mean it is obvious?” said Griselda.
“No, dear, I didn’t 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 haven’t one shadow of proof. One must, I know, be very careful of what one says at a time like this—criminal libel, don’t 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 won’t be necessary after all.”
“I suppose, since the arrest, it isn’t necessary,” I said.
“The arrest?” Miss Marple leaned forward, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I didn’t know there had been an arrest.”
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.
“It seems we have been talking at cross purposes,” I said. “Yes, there has been an arrest—Lawrence Redding.”
“Lawrence Redding?” Miss Marple seemed very surprised. “Now I should not have thought—”
Griselda interrupted vehemently.
“I can’t believe it even now. No, not though he has actually confessed.”
“Confessed?” said Miss Marple. “You say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at sea—yes, sadly at sea.”
“I can’t help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,” said Griselda. “Don’t you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.”
Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.
“He gave himself up, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh!” said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. “I am so glad—so very glad.”
I looked at her in some surprise.
“It shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,” I said.
“Remorse?” Miss Marple looked very surprised. “Oh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you don’t think that he is guilty?”
It was my turn to stare.
“But since he has confessed—”
“Yes, but that just proves it, doesn’t it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.”
“No,” I said. “I may be dense, but I can’t see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have.”
“Oh, of course, there’s a reason!” said Miss Marple. “Naturally. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.”
She turned to Griselda.
“Don’t you agree with me, my dear?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Griselda. “It’s difficult to know what to think. I can’t see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.”
“If you had seen his face last night—” I began.
“Tell me,” said Miss Marple.
I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.
When I had finished she said:
“I know that I am very often rather foolish and don’t take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 5