“It seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creature’s 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.”
“We don’t know the circumstances,” I argued. “If 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.”
“I 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 letter—at least that is what my maid told me.”
“Quite true,” said Griselda. “He seems to have been writing a note to say he couldn’t wait any longer. The note was dated 6:20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6:22, and that’s just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.”
She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.
“Very curious,” said Miss Marple. “Very curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I mean—”
She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring “Morning.”
She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:
“They’ve arrested Lawrence, I hear.”
“Yes,” said Griselda. “It’s been a great shock to us.”
“I never really thought anyone would murder father,” said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. “Lots of people wanted to, I’m sure. There are times when I’d have liked to do it myself.”
“Won’t you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?” asked Griselda.
“No, thank you. I just drifted round to see if you’d got my beret here—a queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day.”
“If you did, it’s there still,” said Griselda. “Mary never tidies anything.”
“I’ll go and see,” said Lettice, rising. “Sorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line.”
“I’m afraid you can’t get it now,” I said. “Inspector Slack has locked the room up.”
“Oh, what a bore! Can’t we get in through the window?”
“I’m afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret won’t be much good to you at present?”
“You mean mourning and all that? I shan’t bother about mourning. I think it’s an awfully archaic idea. It’s a nuisance about Lawrence—yes, it’s a nuisance.”
She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.
“I suppose it’s all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thing….”
Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.
A curious smile came to Lettice’s lips.
“I think,” she said softly, “I’ll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested.”
She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple. “Why did you step on my foot?”
The old lady was smiling.
“I 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 don’t think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. She’s got a very definite idea in her head and she’s acting upon it.”
Mary gave a loud knock on the dining room door and entered hard upon it.
“What is it?” said Griselda. “And Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. I’ve told you about it before.”
“Thought you might be busy,” said Mary. “Colonel Melchett’s here. Wants to see the master.”
Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.
“I thought you wouldn’t like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing room,” went on Mary. “Shall I clear?”
“Not yet,” said Griselda. “I’ll ring.”
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.
“Good morning, Vicar,” he said. “Nasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didn’t. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasn’t upset your missus?”
I said Griselda had taken it very well.
“That’s lucky. Rotten thing to happen in one’s house. I must say I’m surprised at young Redding—doing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for anyone’s feelings.”
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.
“I must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up,” continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.
“How did it happen exactly?”
“Last night. About ten o’clock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol, and says: ‘Here I am. I did it.’ Just like that.”
“What account does he give of the business?”
“Precious little. He was warned, of course, about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see you—found Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Won’t say what the quarrel was about. Look here, Clement—just between you and me, do you know anything about it? I’ve heard rumours—about his being forbidden the house and all that. What was it—did he seduce the daughter, or what? We don’t want to bring the girl into it more than we can help for everybody’s sake. Was that the trouble?”
“No,” I said. “You can take it from me that it was something quite different, but I can’t say more at the present juncture.”
He nodded and rose.
“I’m glad to know. There’s a lot of talk. Too many women in this part of the world. Well, I must get along. I’ve got to see Haydock. He was called out to some case or other, but he ought to be back by now. I don’t mind telling you I’m sorry about Redding. He always struck me as a decent young chap. Perhaps they’ll 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?”
I said I would like to very much, and we went out together.
Haydock’s 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.
“Sorry I had to go out. Confinement case. I’ve been up most of the night, over your business. I’ve got the bullet for you.”
He shoved a little box along the table. Melchett examined it.
“Point two five?”
Haydock nodded.
“I’ll keep the technical details for the inquest,” he said. “All 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.”
“Yes,” said Melchett, “that surprises me.”
“The kitchen window gives on the other side of the house,” I said. “With 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.”
“H’m,” said Melchett. “It’s odd, all the same. I wonder the old lady—what’s her name—Marple, didn’t hear it. The study window was open.”
“Perhaps she did,” said Haydock.
“I don’t think she did,” said I. “She was over at the Vicarage just now and she didn’t mention anything of the kind which I’m certain she would have done if there had been anything to tell.”
“May have heard it and paid no attention to it—thought it was a car backfiring.”
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.
“Or what about a silencer?” he added. “That’s quite likely. Nobody would hear anything then.”
Melchett shook his head.
“Slack didn’t find anything of the kind, and he asked Redding, and Redding didn’t 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.”
“Yes, indeed, poor devil.”
“Damned young fool,” said Colonel Melchett. “Sorry, Clement. But he really is! Somehow one can’t get used to thinking of him as a murderer.”
“Any motive?” asked Haydock, taking a final draught of coffee and pushing back his chair.
“He says they quarrelled and he lost his temper and shot him.”
“Hoping for manslaughter, eh?” The doctor shook his head. “That story doesn’t hold water. He stole up behind him as he was writing and shot him through the head. Precious little ‘quarrel’ about that.”
“Anyway, there wouldn’t have been time for a quarrel,” I said, remembering Miss Marple’s words. “To 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, ‘You want to see Protheroe—oh, you’ll see him all right!’ That in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes before.”
Haydock stared at me.
“What do you mean—what had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?”
“A few minutes before I got to the house.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Impossible. Plumb impossible. He’d been dead much longer than that.”
“But, my dear man,” cried Colonel Melchett, “you said yourself that half an hour was only an approximate estimate.”
“Half an hour, thirty-five minutes, twenty-five minutes, twenty minutes—possibly, but less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.”
We stared at each other. Haydock’s face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I wondered at the change in him.
“But, look here, Haydock.” The Colonel found his voice. “If Redding admits shooting him at a quarter to seven—”
Haydock sprang to his feet.
“I tell you it’s impossible,” he roared. “If Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you I’m a doctor, and I know. The blood had begun to congeal.”
“If Redding is lying,” began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.
“We’d better go down to the police station and see him,” he said.
Eight
We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:
“You know I don’t like the look of this. I don’t like it. There’s something here we don’t understand.”
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 composed—marvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.
“Look here, Redding,” he said, “I 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. I’m not reading it over to you, but that’s the gist of it.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask a few questions. You’ve already been told that you needn’t answer them unless you choose. Your solicitor—”
Lawrence interrupted.
“I’ve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.”
“Ah! well—” Melchett snorted. “How did you happen to have a pistol with you?”
Lawrence hesitated. “It was in my pocket.”
“You took it with you to the Vicarage?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I always take it.”
He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.
“Why did you put the clock back?”
“The clock?” He seemed puzzled.
“Yes, the hands pointed to 6:22.”
A look of fear sprang up in his face.
“Oh! that—yes. I—I altered it.”
Haydock spoke suddenly.
“Where did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?”
“In the study at the Vicarage.”
“I mean in what part of the body?”
“Oh!—I—through the head, I think. Yes, through the head.”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“Since you know, I can’t see why it is necessary to ask me.”
It was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.
“For the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.”
I tore it open and read:
“Please—please—come to me. I don’t 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.”
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 Redding’s 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 being’s face.
I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying:
“I’m a desperate woman,” and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Redding’s heroic self-accusation. Melchett was speaking to Slack.
“Have you got any line on Redding’s movements earlier in the day? There’s some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?”
He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroe’s letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.
“Is this what you were hinting at this morning?”
“Yes. I was not sure then if it was my duty to speak. I am quite sure now.” 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.
“Good morning,” said Melchett. “Will you ask Mrs. Protheroe’s maid to tell her we are here and would like to see her, and then return here and answer a few questions.”
The butler hurried away and presently returned with the news that he had despatched the message.
“Now let’s hear something about yesterday,” said Colonel Melchett. “Your master was in to lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in his usual spirits?”
“As far as I could see, yes, sir.”
“What happened after that?”
“After 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 up”—he bowed to me—“I told him they had started.”
“H’m,” said Colonel Melchett. “When was Mr. Redding last here?”
“On Tuesday afternoon, sir.”
“I understand that there was a disagreement between them?”
“I believe so, sir. The Colonel gave me orders that Mr. Redding was not to be admitted in future.”
“Did you overhear the quarrel at all?” asked Colonel Melchett bluntly.
“Colonel 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.”
“Enough to tell you the cause of the dispute?”
“I understood, sir, that it had to do with a portrait Mr. Redding had been painting—a portrait of Miss Lettice.”
Melchett grunted.
“Did you see Mr. Redding when he left?”
“Yes, sir, I let him out.”
“Did he seem angry?”
“No, sir; if I may say so, he seemed rather amused.”
“Ah! He didn’t come to the house yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“Anyone else come?”
“Not yesterday, sir.”
“Well, the day before?”
“Mr. Dennis Clement came in the afternoon. And Dr. Stone was here for some time. And there was a lady in the evening.”
“A lady?” Melchett was surprised. “Who was she?”
The butler couldn’t 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.
“Curious,” said Melchett. “Really very curious.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 6