The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

  “No,” he said, “it’s not a clue, it’s a peace offering.”

  “A peace offering?”

  “Well, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for calling on your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing she likes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens she makes.”

  “Quite true,” I said. “But what do you want with the old lady?”

  “Just this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I don’t mean anything necessarily connected with the crime—that she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outré or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldn’t think worthwhile mentioning to the police.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “It’s worth trying anyhow. Clement, I’m going to get to the bottom of this business. For Anne’s sake, if nobody’s else. And I haven’t any too much confidence in Slack—he’s a zealous fellow, but zeal can’t really take the place of brains.”

  “I see,” I said, “that you are that favourite character of fiction, the amateur detective. I don’t know that they really hold their own with the professional in real life.”

  He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.

  “What are you doing in the wood, padre?”

  I had the grace to blush.

  “Just the same as I am doing, I dare swear. We’ve got the same idea, haven’t we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along the lane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third way—is there a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushes being disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicarage garden.”

  “That was just my idea,” I admitted.

  “I hadn’t really got down to the job, though,” continued Lawrence. “Because it occurred to me that I’d like to see Miss Marple first, to make quite sure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we were in the studio.”

  I shook my head.

  “She was quite positive that nobody did.”

  “Yes, nobody whom she would call anybody—sounds mad, but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcher’s boy—someone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldn’t think of mentioning it.”

  “You’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton,” I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.

  “But don’t you think there’s just possibly something in the idea?”

  “Well, I suppose there might be,” I admitted.

  Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marple’s. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.

  “You see,” murmured Lawrence, “she sees everybody.”

  She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrence’s immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.

  “It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.”

  Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.

  “Yes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.”

  “You are sure, Miss Marple?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Did you see anyone go by the path into the wood that afternoon?” I asked. “Or come from it?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went that way—it’s the nearest way to the barrow for them. That was a little after two o’clock. And Dr. Stone returned that way—as you know, Mr. Redding, since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.”

  “By the way,” I said. “That shot—the one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.”

  I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.

  “Yes,” he said, frowning. “I believe I did hear some shots. Weren’t there one or two shots?”

  “I only heard one,” said Miss Marple.

  “It’s only the vaguest impression in my mind,” said Lawrence. “Curse it all, I wish I could remember. If only I’d known. You see, I was so completely taken up with—with—”

  He paused, embarrassed.

  I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple, with a touch of prudishness, changed the subject.

  “Inspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard the shot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before. I’ve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the impression—which is growing stronger the more I think about it—that it was after.”

  “Then that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,” said Lawrence, with a sigh. “Not that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.”

  “Ah!” said Miss Marple. “But I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?”

  This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.

  “I really can’t say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened and—one would have noticed it less there.”

  For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.

  “I must ask Anne,” said Lawrence. “She may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.”

  “Perhaps the Vicar knows,” said Miss Marple.

  Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.

  I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.

  “What does Inspector Slack think?” asked Miss Marple.

  “He’s done his best to bully the butler—but apparently the butler wasn’t curious enough to listen at the door. So there it is—no one knows.”

  “I expect someone overheard something, though, don’t you?” said Miss Marple. “I mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Redding may find out something.”

  “But Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.”

  “I didn’t mean Anne Protheroe,” said Miss Marple. “I meant the women servants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice looking young man—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Redding—and one who has been unjustly suspected—oh! I’m sure they’d tell him at once.”

  “I’ll go and have a try this evening,” said Lawrence with vigour. “Thanks for the hint, Miss Marple. I’ll go after—well, after a little job the Vicar and I are going to do.”

  It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it. I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.

  First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainly looked as though someone had left the path on the right-hand side. Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail and found it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. He might have been wrong.

  It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any sign of broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot that Lawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the afternoon.

  We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Again we came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs were very slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was more promising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage. Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly
up to the wall. The wall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles on the top. If anyone had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces of their passage.

  We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came to our ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through a thick tangle of shrubs—and came face to face with Inspector Slack.

  “So it’s you,” he said. “And Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you two gentlemen are doing?”

  Slightly crestfallen, we explained.

  “Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Not being the fools we’re usually thought to be, I had the same idea myself. I’ve been here over an hour. Would you like to know something?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  “Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didn’t come this way to do it! There’s not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. There’s no other way he could have come.”

  “Impossible,” I cried.

  “Why impossible? Your door stands open. Anyone’s only got to walk in. They can’t be seen from the kitchen. They know you’re safely out of the way, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at a tennis party. Simple as A B C. And they don’t need to go or come through the village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from it you can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way you choose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at that particular minute, it’s all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbing over walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridley’s house do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, that’s the way he came.”

  It really seemed as though he must be right.

  Seventeen

  Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the clock.

  “Well, sir,” he greeted me. “I’ve traced that telephone call that you received.”

  “Indeed?” I said eagerly.

  “It’s rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old Hall. Now that lodge is empty, the lodgekeepers have been pensioned off and the new lodgekeepers aren’t in yet. The place was empty and convenient—a window at the back was open. No fingerprints on the instrument itself—it had been wiped clear. That’s suggestive.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get you out of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance. If it had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints wouldn’t have been wiped off so carefully.”

  “No. I see that.”

  “It also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall and its surroundings. It wasn’t Mrs. Protheroe who put that call through. I’ve accounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There are half a dozen other servants who can swear that she was at home till five thirty. Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and her to the village. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one of the horses. Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady was right.”

  “She usually is,” I said mildly.

  “And Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5:30.”

  “Quite so,” I said. “My nephew was there too.”

  “That disposes of her. The maid seems all right—a bit hysterical and upset, but what can you expect? Of course, I’ve got my eye on the butler—what with giving notice and all. But I don’t think he knows anything about it.”

  “Your inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector.”

  “They do and they do not, sir. There’s one very queer thing has turned up—quite unexpectedly, I may say.”

  “Yes?”

  “You remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the telephone?”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Well, we traced the call just to calm her—and where on this earth do you think it was put through from?”

  “A call office?” I hazarded.

  “No, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Redding’s cottage.”

  “What?” I exclaimed, surprised.

  “Yes. A bit odd, isn’t it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At that time, 6:30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? That’s two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think there’s some connection between them. I’ll eat my hat if they weren’t both put through by the same person.”

  “But with what object?”

  “Well, that’s what we’ve got to find out. There seems no particular point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see the significance? Mr. Redding’s house used to telephone from. Mr. Redding’s pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding.”

  “It would be more to the point to have put through the first call from his house,” I objected.

  “Ah, but I’ve been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from his cottage he’d go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The murderer is someone who didn’t know about the quarrel and that Mr. Redding wasn’t going up to Old Hall any more.”

  I reflected a moment to let the Inspector’s points sink into my brain. They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.

  “Were there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Redding’s cottage?” I asked.

  “There were not,” said the Inspector bitterly. “That dratted old woman who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday morning.” He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. “She’s a stupid old fool, anyway. Can’t remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have been there on the morning of the crime, or it might not. ‘She couldn’t say, she’s sure.’ They’re all alike!

  “Just as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone,” he went on. “I must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went up to that mound—or barrow—or whatever you call it, about half past two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back alone, and she came later. He says he didn’t hear any shot, but admits he’s absentminded. But it all bears out what we think.”

  “Only,” I said, “you haven’t caught the murderer.”

  “H’m,” said the Inspector. “It was a woman’s voice you heard through the telephone. It was in all probability a woman’s voice Mrs. Price Ridley heard. If only that shot hadn’t come hard on the close of the telephone call—well, I’d know where to look.”

  “Where?”

  “Ah! That’s just what it’s best not to say, sir.”

  Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine old vintage port. Eleven o’clock in the morning is not the usual time for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamish about such things.

  When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.

  “I don’t suppose it matters with you, sir,” he said. “You’ll keep it to yourself? No letting it get round the parish.”

  I reassured him.

  “Seeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as though you have a right to know.”

  “Just what I feel myself,” I said.

  “Well, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?”

  “Mrs.
Lestrange,” I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.

  The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.

  “Not so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady I’ve got my eye on. You remember what I told you—blackmail.”

  “Hardly a reason for murder. Wouldn’t it be a case of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true, which I don’t for a minute admit.”

  The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.

  “Ah! She’s the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look here, sir. Suppose she’s successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here and tries it on again. But, in the meantime, things have changed. The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmail—names are not allowed to be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says he’ll have the law on her. She’s in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence for blackmail. The boot’s on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick.”

  I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissable—the personality of Mrs. Lestrange.

  “I don’t agree with you, Inspector,” I said. “Mrs. Lestrange doesn’t seem to me to be a potential blackmailer. She’s—well, it’s an old-fashioned word, but she’s a—lady.”

  He threw me a pitying glance.

  “Ah! well, sir,” he said tolerantly, “you’re a clergyman. You don’t know half of what goes on. Lady indeed! You’d be surprised if you knew some of the things I know.”

  “I’m not referring to mere social position. Anyway, I should imagine Mrs. Lestrange to be a déclassée. What I mean is a question of—personal refinement.”

  “You don’t see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a man—but I’m a police officer, too. They can’t get over me with their personal refinement. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into you without turning a hair.”