The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  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.

  “It was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement,” she said, as she shook hands. “I wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong.”

  “As I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you.”

  “Yes, 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.”

  “I can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange.”

  “It is true. Most people—most men, at any rate, are out for their own hand.” There was a bitterness in her voice.

  I did not answer, and she went on:

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  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.

  “I 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?”

  Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face:

  “Oh! Please, ma’am, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please.”

  There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrange’s 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: “Show him in, Hilda.”

  I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand.

  “If you do not mind—I should be much obliged if you would stay.”

  I resumed my seat.

  “Certainly, if you wish it,” I murmured, as Slack entered with a brisk regulation tread.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” he began.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  At this moment, he caught sight of me and scowled. There is no doubt about it, Slack does not like me.

  “You have no objection to the Vicar’s presence, I hope?”

  I suppose that Slack could not very well say he had.

  “No-o,” he said grudgingly. “Though, perhaps, it might be better—”

  Mrs. Lestrange paid no attention to the hint.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” she asked.

  “It’s this way, madam. Murder of Colonel Protheroe. I’m in charge of the case and making inquiries.”

  Mrs. Lestrange nodded.

  “Just as a matter of form, I’m 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.”

  “You want to know where I was yesterday evening between six and seven?”

  “If you please, madam.”

  “Let me see.” She reflected a moment. “I was here. In this house.”

  “Oh!” I saw the Inspector’s eyes flash. “And your maid—you have only one maid, I think—can confirm that statement?”

  “No, it was Hilda’s afternoon out.”

  “I see.”

  “So, unfortunately, you will have to take my word for it,” said Mrs. Lestrange pleasantly.

  “You seriously declare that you were at home all the afternoon?”

  “You said between six and seven, Inspector. I was out for a walk early in the afternoon. I returned some time before five o’clock.”

  “Then if a lady—Miss Hartnell, for instance—were to declare that she came here about six o’clock, rang the bell, but could make no one hear and was compelled to go away again—you’d say she was mistaken, eh?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Lestrange shook her head.

  “But—”

  “If your maid is in, she can say not at home. If one is alone and does not happen to want to see callers—well, the only thing to do is to let them ring.”

  Inspector Slack looked slightly baffled.

  “Elderly women bore me dreadfully,” said Mrs. Lestrange. “And Miss Hartnell is particularly boring. She must have rung at least half a dozen times before she went away.”

  She smiled sweetly at Inspector Slack.

  The Inspector shifted his ground.

  “Then if anyone were to say they’d seen you out and about then—”

  “Oh! but they didn’t, did they?” She was quick to sense his weak point. “No one saw me out, because I was in, you see.”

  “Quite so, madam.”

  The Inspector hitched his chair a little nearer.

  “Now I understand, Mrs. Lestrange, that you paid a visit to Colonel Protheroe at Old Hall the night before his death.”

  Mrs. Lestrange said calmly: “That is so.”

  “Can you indicate to me the nature of that interview?”

  “It concerned a private matter, Inspector.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask you tell me the nature of that private matter.”

  “I 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.”

  “I don’t think you are the best judge of that.”

  “At any rate, you will have to take my word for it, Inspector.”

  “In fact, I have to take your word about everything.”

  “It does seem rather like it,” she agreed, still with the same smiling calm.

  Inspector Slack grew very red.

  “This is a serious matter, Mrs. Lestrange. I want the truth—” He banged his fist down on a table. “And I mean to get it.”

  Mrs. Lestrange said nothing at all.

  “Don’t you see, madam, that you’re putting yourself in a very fishy position?”

  Still Mrs. Lestrange said nothing.

  “You’ll be required to give evidence at the inquest.”

  “Yes.”

  Just the monosyllable. Unemphatic, uninterested. The Inspector altered his tactics.

  “You were acquainted with Colonel Protheroe?”

  “Yes, I was acquainted with him.”

  “Well acquainted?”

  There was a pause before she said:

  “I had not seen him for several years.”

  “You were acquainted with Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll excuse me, but it was a very unusual time to make a call.”

  “Not from my point of view.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I 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.”

  “Why didn’t you want to see Mrs. or Miss Protheroe?”

  “That, Inspector, is my business.”

  “Then you refuse to say more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Inspector Slack rose.

  “You’ll be putting yourself in a nasty position, madam, if you’re not careful. All this looks bad—it looks very bad.”

  She laughed. I could have told Inspector Slack that this was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened.

  “Well,” he said, extricating himself with dignity, “don’t say I haven’t warned you, that’s all. Good afternoon, madam, and mind you we’re going to get at the truth.”

  He departed. Mrs. Lestrange rose and held out her hand.

  “I am going to send you away—yes, it is better so. You see, it is too late for advice now. I have chosen my part.”

  She repeated in a rather forlorn voice:

  “I have chosen my part.”

  Sixteen

  As I went out I ran into Haydock on the d
oorstep. He glanced sharply after Slack, who was just passing through the gate, and demanded: “Has he been questioning her?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been civil, I hope?”

  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 didn’t 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.

  “Do you know anything about the lady?” he asked me point blank.

  I said I knew nothing whatever.

  “She’s never said anything about why she came here to live?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you go and see her?”

  “It is one of my duties to call on my parishioners,” I replied, evading to remark that I had been sent for.

  “H’m, I suppose it is.” He was silent for a minute or two and then, unable to resist discussing his recent failure, he went on: “Fishy business, it looks to me.”

  “You think so?”

  “If you ask me, I say ‘blackmail.’ Seems funny, when you think of what Colonel Protheroe was always supposed to be. But there, you never can tell. He wouldn’t be the first churchwarden who’d led a double life.”

  Faint remembrances of Miss Marple’s remarks on the same subject floated through my mind.

  “You really think that’s likely?”

  “Well, 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 admit—blackmail’s a punishable offence. But we’ll 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 life—something disgraceful—well, you can see for yourself what a field it opens up.”

  I suppose it did.

  “I’ve 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 hasn’t 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 didn’t like the place anyway and had been thinking of leaving for some time.”

  “Really.”

  “So that gives us another person who had a grudge against the Colonel.”

  “You don’t seriously suspect the man—what’s his name, by the way?”

  “His name’s Reeves, and I don’t say I do suspect him. What I say is, you never know. I don’t like that soapy, oily manner of his.”

  I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slack’s manner.

  “I’m going to question the chauffeur now.”

  “Perhaps, then,” I said, “you’ll give me a lift in your car. I want a short interview with Mrs. Protheroe.”

  “What about?”

  “The funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh!” Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. “The inquest’s tomorrow, Saturday.”

  “Just so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.”

  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.

  “Now, then, my lad,” said Slack, “I want a little information from you.”

  “Yes, sir,” stammered the chauffeur. “Certainly, sir.”

  If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been more alarmed.

  “You took your master to the village yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Mrs. Protheroe went too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You went straight to the village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did you do when you got there?”

  “The Colonel got out and told me he wouldn’t want the car again. He’d 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.”

  “Leaving her in the village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A quarter past six, sir. A quarter past exactly.”

  “Where did you leave her?”

  “By the church, sir.”

  “Had the Colonel mentioned at all where he was going?”

  “He said something about having to see the vet … something to do with one of the horses.”

  “I see. And you drove straight back here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There 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?”

  “Yes, sir, always.”

  “And you came back the same way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “H’m. I think that’s all. Ah! Here’s Miss Protheroe.”

  Lettice drifted towards us.

  “I want the Fiat, Manning,” she said. “Start her for me, will you?”

  “Very good, miss.”

  He went towards a two-seater and lifted the bonnet.

  “Just a minute, Miss Protheroe,” said Slack. “It’s necessary that I should have a record of everybody’s movements yesterday afternoon. No offence meant.”

  Lettice stared at him.

  “I never know the time of anything,” she said.

  “I understand you went out soon after lunch yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  “Where to, please?”

  “To play tennis.”

  “Who with?”

  “The Hartley Napiers.”

  “At Much Benham?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you returned?”

  “I don’t know. I tell you I never know these things.”

  “You returned,” I said, “about seven thirty.”

  “That’s right,” said Lettice. “In the middle of the shemozzle. Anne having fits and Griselda supporting her.”

  “Thank you, miss,” said the Inspector. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “How queer,” said Lettice. “It seems so uninteresting.”

  She moved towards the Fiat.

  The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

  “A bit wanting?” he suggested.

  “Not in the least,” I said. “But she likes to be thought so.”

  “Well, I’m off to question the maids now.”

  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. “She is lying down, sir, at the moment.”

  “Then I’d better not disturb her.”

  “Perhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs. Protheroe is anxious to see you. She was saying as much at luncheon.”

  He showed me into the drawing room, switching on the electric lights since the blinds were down.

  “A very sad business all this,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.” 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.

  “Is there anything more, sir?”


  Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expression?

  “There’s nothing more,” 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:

  “What a wonderfully kind man Dr. Haydock is!” she exclaimed.

  “Haydock is the best fellow I know.”

  “He has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesn’t he?”

  It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned the idea over in my mind.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it,” I said at last.

  “I never have, until today.”

  “One’s own troubles sharpen one’s eyes sometimes,” I said.

  “That’s very true.” She paused and then said:

  “Mr. Clement, there’s one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my husband were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didn’t hear the shot?”

  “They have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.”

  “But the 6:20 on the note?”

  “Was possibly added by a different hand—the murderer’s.”

  Her cheek paled.

  “It didn’t strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?”

  “How horrible!”

  “None of it looked like his handwriting.”

  There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegible scrawl, not so precise as Protheroe’s writing usually was.

  “You are sure they don’t still suspect Lawrence?”

  “I think he is definitely cleared.”

  “But, Mr. Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but I don’t think he had any real enemies. Not—not that kind of enemy.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a mystery.”

  I thought wonderingly of Miss Marple’s 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.