The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  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 me—a kind of grim determination. She spoke to me.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” she said. “I see you’ve understood what I meant by bringing anyone you liked with you.” She paused.

  “It’s best to get it over quickly, isn’t it?” she said. She gave a queer, half-pathetic little smile. “I suppose you’re the person I ought to say it to, Colonel Melchett. You see, it was I who killed my husband.”

  Colonel Melchett said gently:

  “My dear Mrs. Protheroe—”

  “Oh! It’s quite true. I suppose I’ve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. I’ve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.”

  She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “That’s all. I suppose you’ll arrest me and take me away. I’ll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.”

  “Are you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?”

  Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.

  “I know. Silly boy. He’s very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of him—but very silly.”

  “He knew that it was you who had committed the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know?”

  She hesitated.

  “Did you tell him?”

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

  “Yes—I told him….”

  She twitched her shoulders with a movement of irritation.

  “Can’t you go away now? I’ve told you. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Where did you get the pistol, Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “The pistol! Oh, it was my husband’s. I got it out of the drawer of his dressing table.”

  “I see. And you took it with you to the Vicarage?”

  “Yes. I knew he would be there—”

  “What time was this?”

  “It must have been after six—quarter—twenty past—something like that.”

  “You took the pistol meaning to shoot your husband?”

  “No—I—meant it for myself.”

  “I see. But you went to the Vicarage?”

  “Yes. I went along to the window. There were no voices. I looked in. I saw my husband. Something came over me—and I fired.”

  “And then?”

  “Then? Oh, then I went away.”

  “And told Mr. Redding what you had done?”

  Again I noticed the hesitation in her voice before she said “Yes.”

  “Did anybody see you entering or leaving the Vicarage?”

  “No—at least, yes. Old Miss Marple. I talked to her for a few minutes. She was in her garden.”

  She moved restlessly on the pillows.

  “Isn’t that enough? I’ve told you. Why do you want to go on bothering me?”

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

  He beckoned to Melchett.

  “I’ll stay with her,” he said in a whisper, “whilst you make the necessary arrangements. She oughtn’t to be left. Might do herself a mischief.”

  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.

  “Are you Colonel Protheroe’s valet?”

  The man looked surprised. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know whether your late master kept a pistol anywhere?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Not in one of the drawers of his dressing table? Think, man.”

  The valet shook his head decisively.

  “I’m quite sure he didn’t, sir. I’d have seen it if so. Bound to.”

  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.

  “You’d better come with me, Vicar,” he said. “I don’t want to give a member of your flock hysterics. So lend the weight of your soothing presence.”

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

  “What’s she like?” asked the Colonel, as we rang the bell. “Anything she says to be depended upon or otherwise?”

  I considered the matter.

  “I think she is quite dependable,” I said cautiously. “That 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 thinks—well, that is another matter. She has a powerful imagination and systematically thinks the worst of everyone.”

  “The typical elderly spinster, in fact,” said Melchett, with a laugh. “Well, I ought to know the breed by now. Gad, the tea parties down here!”

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

  “A bit crowded,” said Colonel Melchett, looking round. “But plenty of good stuff. A lady’s room, eh, Clement?”

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

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

  “Of course, of course,” said Miss Marple. “I quite understand. Won’t you sit down? And might I offer you a little glass of cherry brandy? My own making. A recipe of my grandmother’s.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Marple. Very kind of you. But I think I won’t. Nothing till lunch time, that’s my motto. Now, I want to talk to you about this sad business—very sad business indeed. Upset us all, I’m 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.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was in my little garden from five o’clock onwards yesterday, and, of course, from there—well, one simply cannot help seeing anything that is going on next door.”

  “I understand, Miss Marple, that Mrs. Protheroe passed this way yesterday evening?”

  “Yes, she did. I called out to her, and she admired my roses.”

  “Could you tell us about what time that was?”

  “I should say it was just a minute or two after a quarter past six. Yes, that’s right. The church clock had just chimed the quarter.”

  “Very good. What happened next?”

  “Well, 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.”

  “She came from the lane?”

  “Yes, I’ll show you.”

  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.

  “The path opposite with the stile leads to the Hall,” she explained. “That was the way they were going home together. Mrs. Protheroe came from the village.”

  “Perfectly, perfectly,” said Colonel Melchett. “And she went across to the Vicarage, you say?”

  “Yes. I saw her turn the corner of the house. I suppose the Colonel wasn’t there yet, because she came back almost immediately, and went down the lawn to the studio—that building there. The one the Vicar lets Mr. Redding use as a studio.”

  “I see. And—you didn’t hear a shot, Miss Marple?”

  “I didn’t hear a shot then,” said Miss Marple.

  “But you did hear one somet
ime?”

  “Yes, I think there was a shot somewhere in the woods. But quite five or ten minutes afterwards—and, as I say, out in the woods. At least, I think so. It couldn’t have been—surely it couldn’t have been—”

  She stopped, pale with excitement.

  “Yes, yes, we’ll come to all that presently,” said Colonel Melchett. “Please go on with your story. Mrs. Protheroe went down to the studio?”

  “Yes, she went inside and waited. Presently Mr. Redding came along the lane from the village. He came to the Vicarage gate, looked all round—”

  “And saw you, Miss Marple.”

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t see me,” said Miss Marple, flushing slightly. “Because, you see, just at that minute I was bending right over—trying to get up one of those nasty dandelions, you know. So difficult. And then he went through the gate and down to the studio.”

  “He didn’t go near the house?”

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

  Here Miss Marple contributed a singularly eloquent pause.

  “Perhaps she was sitting for him?” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Marple.

  “And they came out—when?”

  “About ten minutes later.”

  “That was roughly?”

  “The 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 can’t be quite sure, they were joined by Miss Cram. I think it must have been Miss Cram because her skirts were so short.”

  “You must have very good eyesight, Miss Marple, if you can observe as far as that.”

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

  “Ah! Well, that may be so,” said Colonel Melchett. “Now, 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?”

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

  “They didn’t seem upset or disturbed in any way?”

  “Oh, no! Just the opposite.”

  “Deuced odd,” said the Colonel. “There’s something deuced odd about the whole thing.”

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

  “Has Mrs. Protheroe been saying that she committed the crime now?”

  “Upon my soul,” said the Colonel, “how did you come to guess that, Miss Marple?”

  “Well, I rather thought it might happen,” said Miss Marple. “I think dear Lettice thought so, too. She’s really a very sharp girl. Not always very scrupulous, I’m afraid. So Anne Protheroe says she killed her husband. Well, well. I don’t think it’s true. No, I’m almost sure it isn’t true. Not with a woman like Anne Protheroe. Although one never can be quite sure about anyone, can one? At least that’s what I’ve found. When does she say she shot him?”

  “At twenty minutes past six. Just after speaking to you.”

  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.

  “What did she shoot him with?”

  “A pistol.”

  “Where did she find it?”

  “She brought it with her.”

  “Well, that she didn’t do,” said Miss Marple, with unexpected decision. “I can swear to that. She’d no such thing with her.”

  “You mightn’t have seen it.”

  “Of course I should have seen it.”

  “If it had been in her handbag.”

  “She wasn’t carrying a handbag.”

  “Well, it might have been concealed—er—upon her person.”

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

  “My dear Colonel Melchett, you know what young women are nowadays. Not ashamed to show exactly how the creator made them. She hadn’t so much as a handkerchief in the top of her stocking.”

  Melchett was obstinate.

  “You must admit that it all fits in,” he said. “The time, the overturned clock pointing to 6:22—”

  Miss Marple turned on me.

  “Do you mean you haven’t told him about that clock yet?”

  “What about the clock, Clement?”

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

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell Slack this last night?”

  “Because,” I said, “he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Nonsense, you ought to have insisted.”

  “Probably,” I said, “Inspector Slack behaves quite differently to you than he does to me. I had no earthly chance of insisting.”

  “It’s an extraordinary business altogether,” said Melchett. “If a third person comes along and claims to have done this murder, I shall go into a lunatic asylum.”

  “If I might be allowed to suggest—” murmured Miss Marple.

  “Well?”

  “If you were to tell Mr. Redding what Mrs. Protheroe has done and then explain that you don’t really believe it is her. And then if you were to go to Mrs. Protheroe and tell her that Mr. Redding is all right—why then, they might each of them tell you the truth. And the truth is helpful, though I dare say they don’t know very much themselves, poor things.”

  “It’s all very well, but they are the only two people who had a motive for making away with Protheroe.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Colonel Melchett,” said Miss Marple.

  “Why, can you think of anyone else?”

  “Oh! yes, indeed. Why,” she counted on her fingers, “one, two, three, four, five, six—yes, 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.”

  The Colonel looked at her feebly.

  “Seven people? In St. Mary Mead?”

  Miss Marple nodded brightly.

  “Mind you I name no names,” she said. “That wouldn’t be right. But I’m afraid there’s a lot of wickedness in the world. A nice honourable upright soldier like you doesn’t know about these things, Colonel Melchett.”

  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.

  “I 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?”

  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 witness—particularly valuable from Mrs. Protheroe’s point of view.

  “I suppose there’s no doubt about what she says, eh?”

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

  “That’s true enough. We’d better go and have a look at the studio.”

  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.

  “I’m going to the police station now.”

  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.

  “Hullo, Len,” said Griselda.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clement,” said Miss Cram. “Isn’t the news about the Colonel really too awful? Poor old gentleman.”

  “Miss Cram,” said my wife, “very kindly came in to offer to help us with the Guides. We asked for helpers last Sunday, you remember.”

  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.

  “I was only just saying to Mrs. Clement,” went on Miss Cram, “you could have struck me all of a heap when I heard the news. A murder? I said. In this quiet one-horse village—for quiet it is, you must admit—not so much as a picture house, and as for Talkies! And then when I heard it was Colonel Protheroe—why, I simply couldn’t believe it. He didn’t seem the kind, somehow, to get murdered.”

  “And so,” said Griselda, “Miss Cram came round to find out all about it.”

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

  “That’s too bad. You’re a sharp one, aren’t you, Mrs. Clement? But it’s only natural, isn’t it, to want to hear the ins and outs of a case like this? And I’m sure I’m willing enough to help with the Guides in any way you like. Exciting, that’s what it is. I’ve been stagnating for a bit of fun. I have, really I have. Not that my job isn’t 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?”

  “There’s Lettice Protheroe,” I said.

  Gladys Cram tossed her head.

  “She’s too high and mighty for the likes of me. Fancies herself the country, and wouldn’t 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 who’d employ her, I should like to know? Why, she’d 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.”