The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

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

  “Don’t look at me as though I were an interesting specimen you didn’t understand, Len. Don’t let’s get heated and wander from the point. I don’t 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.”

  “There is the note, of course,” said Miss Marple. “You will remember my saying this morning that that struck me as exceedingly peculiar.”

  “It seems to fix the time of his death with remarkable accuracy,” I said. “And 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.”

  “I have another idea,” said Griselda. “Suppose, Len, that the clock had already been put back—no, that comes to the same thing—how stupid of me!”

  “It hadn’t been altered when I left,” I said. “I remember comparing it with my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present matter.”

  “What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Griselda.

  “My dear, I confess I wasn’t 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.”

  “I don’t see that,” I said. “Colonel Protheroe merely wrote that he couldn’t wait any longer—”

  “At twenty minutes past six?” said Miss Marple. “Your maid, Mary, had already told him that you wouldn’t 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 ‘can’t wait any longer.’”

  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 thing—a very odd thing.

  “If only,” I said, “the letter hadn’t been dated—”

  Miss Marple nodded her head.

  “Exactly,” she said. “If it hadn’t been dated!”

  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.

  “Supposing,” I said, “it wasn’t dated. Supposing that round about 6:30 Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldn’t wait any longer. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in through the window—”

  “Or through the door,” suggested Griselda.

  “He’d hear the door and look up.”

  “Colonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember,” said Miss Marple.

  “Yes, that’s true. He wouldn’t 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.”

  “And what we want to find,” said Griselda, “is someone who has a cast-iron alibi for 6:20, but no alibi at all for—well, that isn’t so easy. One can’t fix the time.”

  “We can fix it within very narrow limits,” I said. “Haydock 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.”

  “Then that shot I heard—yes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I thought nothing about it—nothing 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.”

  “Louder?” I suggested.

  No, Miss Marple didn’t 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 back—it 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.

  “Still puzzling over that note?” I asked.

  “No.”

  She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.

  “Len, I’ve been thinking. How badly someone must have hated Anne Protheroe!”

  “Hated her?”

  “Yes. Don’t you see? There’s no real evidence against Lawrence—all the evidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens to take it into his head to come here. If he hadn’t—well, no one would have thought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different. Suppose someone knew that she was here at exactly 6:20—the clock and the time on the letter—everything pointing to her. I don’t think it was only because of an alibi it was moved to that exact time—I think there was more in it than that—a direct attempt to fasten the business on her. If it hadn’t been for Miss Marple saying she hadn’t got the pistol with her and noticing that she was only a moment before going down to the studio—Yes, if it hadn’t been for that …” She shivered again. “Len, I feel that someone hated Anne Protheroe very much. I—I don’t like it.”

  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.

  “We want to ask you a few questions—here, on the spot,” he said.

  Lawrence sneered slightly.

  “Isn’t that a French idea? Reconstruction of the crime?”

  “My dear boy,” said Colonel Melchett, “don’t take that tone with us. Are you aware that someone else has also confessed to committing the crime which you pretend to have committed?”

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

  “S-s-omeone else?” he stammered. “Who—who?”

  “Mrs. Protheroe,” said Colonel Melchett, watching him.

  “Absurd. She never did it. She couldn’t have. It’s impossible.”

  Melchett interrupted him.

  “Strangely 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.”

  “Dr. Haydock says that?”

  “Yes, 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.”

  Lawrence still hesitated.

  “You’re not deceiving me about—about Mrs. Protheroe? You really don’t suspect her?”

  “On my word of honour,” said Colonel Melchett.

  Lawrence drew a deep breath.

  “I’ve been a fool,” he said. “An absolute fool. How could I have thought for one minute that she did it—”

  “Suppose you tell us all about it?” suggested the Chief Constable.

  “There’s not much to tell. I—I met Mrs. Protheroe that afternoon—” He paused.

  “We know all about that,” said Melchett. “You 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.”

  “Very well, then. I expect you are right. I had promised the Vicar here (he glanced at me) to—to 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. We—we said good-bye to each other.

  “We left the studio, and almost at once Dr. Stone joined us. Anne ma
naged to seem marvellously natural. I couldn’t do it. I went off with Stone to the Blue Boar and had a drink. Then I thought I’d 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.

  “At 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 didn’t like to go away again—looked as though I were shirking meeting him. So I said I’d wait too, and I went into the study.”

  He stopped.

  “Well?” said Colonel Melchett.

  “Protheroe was sitting at the writing table—just as you found him. I went up to him—touched him. He was dead. Then I looked down and saw the pistol lying on the floor beside him. I picked it up—and at once saw that it was my pistol.

  “That gave me a turn. My pistol! And then, straightaway I leaped to one conclusion. Anne must have bagged my pistol some time or other—meaning it for herself if she couldn’t bear things any longer. Perhaps she had had it with her today. After we parted in the village she must have come back here and—and—oh! I suppose I was mad to think of it. But that’s 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 Protheroe—suddenly 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 walking—walking—at last I couldn’t bear it any longer. If Anne had done this ghastly thing, I was, at least, morally responsible. I went and gave myself up.”

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

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

  “No, I didn’t touch it at all. One could see he was dead without touching him.”

  “Did you notice a note lying on the blotter half concealed by his body?”

  “No.”

  “Did you interfere in any way with the clock?”

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

  “Now as to this pistol of yours, when did you last see it?”

  Lawrence Redding reflected. “It’s hard to say exactly.”

  “Where do you keep it?”

  “Oh, in a litter of odds and ends in the sitting room in my cottage. On one of the shelves of the bookcase.”

  “You left it lying about carelessly?”

  “Yes. I really didn’t think about it. It was just there.”

  “So that anyone who came to your cottage could have seen it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t remember when you last saw it?”

  Lawrence drew his brows together in a frown of recollection.

  “I’m 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 yesterday—but it may have been the day before that.”

  “Who has been to your cottage lately?”

  “Oh! 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.”

  “Do you lock the cottage up when you go out?”

  “No; why on earth should I? I’ve nothing to steal. And no one does lock their house up round here.”

  “Who looks after your wants there?”

  “An old Mrs. Archer comes in every morning to ‘do for me’ as it’s called.”

  “Do you think she would remember when the pistol was there last?”

  “I don’t know. She might. But I don’t fancy conscientious dusting is her strong point.”

  “It comes to this—that almost anyone might have taken that pistol?”

  “It seems so—yes.”

  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.

  “Forgive me, Anne,” he said. “It was abominable of me to think what I did.”

  “I—” She faltered, then looked appealingly at Colonel Melchett. “Is it true, what Dr. Haydock told me?”

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

  She smiled rather shamefacedly.

  “I suppose you think it dreadful of me?”

  “Well, shall we say—very foolish? But that’s all over. What I want now, Mrs. Protheroe, is the truth—the absolute truth.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “I will tell you. I suppose you know about—about everything.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was to meet Lawrence—Mr. Redding—that 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 couldn’t get word to Lawrence, and I was rather uneasy. I—well, it was awkward meeting him in the Vicarage garden whilst my husband was at the Vicarage.”

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

  “I 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 don’t know whether she believed me or not. She looked rather—funny.

  “When 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.”

  “You say the room was empty, Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “Yes, my husband was not there.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “You mean, ma’am, that you didn’t see him?” said the Inspector.

  “No, I didn’t see him.”

  Inspector Slack whispered to the Chief Constable, who nodded.

  “Do you mind, Mrs. Protheroe, just showing us exactly what you did?”

  “Not at all.”

  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 didn’t 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.

  “Is that exactly how it was?” asked Colonel Melchett.

  “I think exactly.”

  “Then can you tell us, Mrs. Protheroe, just exactly where the Vicar was in the room when you looked in?” asked Inspector Slack.

  “The Vicar? I—no, I’m afraid I can’t. I didn’t see him.”

  Inspector Slack nodded.

  “That’s how you didn’t see your husband. He was round the corner at the writing desk.”

  “Oh!” she paused. Suddenly her eyes grew round with horror. “It wasn’t there that—that—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Protheroe. It was while he was sitting there.”

  “Oh!” She quivered.

  He went on with his questions.

  “Did you know, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Redding had a pistol?”

  “Yes. He told me so once.”

  “Did you ever have that pistol in your possession?”

  She sho
ok her head. “No.”

  “Did you know where he kept it?”

  “I’m not sure. I think—yes, I think I’ve seen it on a shelf in his cottage. Didn’t you keep it there, Lawrence?”

  “When was the last time you were at the cottage, Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “Oh! About three weeks ago. My husband and I had tea there with him.”

  “And you have not been there since?”

  “No. I never went there. You see, it would probably cause a lot of talk in the village.”

  “Doubtless,” said Colonel Melchett dryly. “Where were you in the habit of seeing Mr. Redding, if I may ask?”

  “He used to come up to the Hall. He was painting Lettice. We—we often met in the woods afterwards.”

  Colonel Melchett nodded.

  “Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was suddenly broken. “It’s so awful—having to tell you all these things. And—and there wasn’t anything wrong about it. There wasn’t—indeed, there wasn’t. We were just friends. We—we couldn’t help caring for each other.”

  She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haydock, and that softhearted man stepped forward.

  “I really think, Melchett,” he said, “that Mrs. Protheroe has had enough. She’s had a great shock—in more ways than one.”

  The Chief Constable nodded.

  “There is really nothing more I want to ask you, Mrs. Protheroe,” he said. “Thank you for answering my questions so frankly.”

  “Then—then I may go?”

  “Is your wife in?” asked Haydock. “I think Mrs. Protheroe would like to see her.”

  “Yes,” I said, “Griselda is in. You’ll find her in the drawing room.”

  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 Marple’s theory. Slack looked closely at it.

  “My word,” he said, “I believe the old lady’s right. Look here, sir, don’t you see?—these figures are written in different ink. That date was written with a fountain pen or I’ll eat my boots!”

  We were all rather excited.

  “You’ve examined the note for fingerprints, of course,” said the Chief Constable.