Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs. Lestrange guilty of murder much more easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.
“But, of course, she can’t have been telephoning to the old lady next door and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,” continued the Inspector.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg ferociously.
“Got it,” he exclaimed. “That’s the point of the telephone call. Kind of alibi. Knew we’d connect it with the first one. I’m going to look into this. She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for her. He’d never think of connecting it with the murder.”
The Inspector hurried off.
“Miss Marple wants to see you,” said Griselda, putting her head in. “She sent over a very incoherent note—all spidery and underlined. I couldn’t read most of it. Apparently she can’t leave home herself. Hurry up and go across and see her and find out what it is. I’ve got my old women coming in two minutes or I’d come myself. I do hate old women—they tell you about their bad legs and sometimes insist on showing them to you. What luck that the inquest is this afternoon! You won’t have to go and watch the Boys’ Club Cricket Match.”
I hurried off, considerably exercised in my mind as to the reason for this summons.
I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She was very pink and slightly incoherent.
“My nephew,” she explained. “My nephew, Raymond West, the author. He is coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself. You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course, have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do they not? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the house—and a siphon.”
“If I can do anything—” I began.
“Oh! How very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of time really. He brings his own pipe and tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad because it saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy. But rather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get out of the curtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well very early every morning. Raymond gets up very late—I think writers often do. He writes very clever books, I believe, though people are not really nearly so unpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so little of life, don’t you think?”
“Would you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?” I asked, still unable to gather why I had been summoned.
“Oh! No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “It’s very kind of you,” she added.
“There was—er—something you wanted to see me about, I think,” I suggested desperately.
“Oh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my head.” She broke off and called to her maid. “Emily—Emily. Not those sheets. The frilled ones with the monogram, and don’t put them too near the fire.”
She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.
“It’s just rather a curious thing that happened last night,” she explained. “I thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesn’t seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last night—wondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what do you think I saw?”
I looked, inquiring.
“Gladys Cram,” said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. “As I live, going into the wood with a suitcase.”
“A suitcase?”
“Isn’t it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the wood at twelve o’clock at night?
“You see,” said Miss Marple, “I dare say it has nothing to do with the murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we must take notice of Peculiar Things.”
“Perfectly amazing,” I said. “Was she going to—er—sleep in the barrow by any chance?”
“She didn’t, at any rate,” said Miss Marple. “Because quite a short time afterwards she came back, and she hadn’t got the suitcase with her.”
Eighteen
The inquest was held that afternoon (Saturday) at two o’clock at the Blue Boar. The local excitement was, I need hardly say, tremendous. There had been no murder in St. Mary Mead for at least fifteen years. And to have someone like Colonel Protheroe murdered actually in the Vicarage study is such a feast of sensation as rarely falls to the lot of a village population.
Various comments floated to my ears which I was probably not meant to hear.
“There’s Vicar. Looks pale, don’t he? I wonder if he had a hand in it. ’Twas done at Vicarage, after all.” “How can you, Mary Adams? And him visiting Henry Abbott at the time.” “Oh! But they do say him and the Colonel had words. There’s Mary Hill. Giving herself airs, she is, on account of being in service there. Hush, here’s coroner.”
The coroner was Dr. Roberts of our adjoining town of Much Benham. He cleared his throat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked important.
To recapitulate all the evidence would be merely tiresome. Lawrence Redding gave evidence of finding the body, and identified the pistol as belonging to him. To the best of his belief he had seen it on the Tuesday, two days previously. It was kept on a shelf in his cottage, and the door of the cottage was habitually unlocked.
Mrs. Protheroe gave evidence that she had last seen her husband at about a quarter to six when they separated in the village street. She agreed to call for him at the Vicarage later. She had gone to the Vicarage about a quarter past six, by way of the back lane and the garden gate. She had heard no voices in the study and had imagined that the room was empty, but her husband might have been sitting at the writing table, in which case she would not have seen him. As far as she knew, he had been in his usual health and spirits. She knew of no enemy who might have had a grudge against him.
I gave evidence next, told of my appointment with Protheroe and my summons to the Abbotts.’ I described how I had found the body and my summoning of Dr. Haydock.
“How many people, Mr. Clement, were aware that Colonel Protheroe was coming to see you that evening?”
“A good many, I should imagine. My wife knew, and my nephew, and Colonel Protheroe himself alluded to the fact that morning when I met him in the village. I should think several people might have overheard him, as, being slightly deaf, he spoke in a loud voice.”
“It was, then, a matter of common knowledge? Anyone might know?”
I agreed.
Haydock followed. He was an important witness. He described carefully and technically the appearance of the body and the exact injuries. It was his opinion that the deceased had been shot at approximately 6:20 to 6:30—certainly not later than 6:35. That was the outside limit. He was positive and emphatic on that point. There was no question of suicide, the wound could not have been self-inflicted.
Inspector Slack’s evidence was discreet and abridged. He described his summons and the circumstances under which he had found the body. The unfinished letter was produced and the time on it—6:20—noted. Also the clock. It was tacitly assumed that the time of death was 6:22. The police were giving nothing away. Anne Protheroe told me afterwards that she had been told to suggest a slightly earlier period of time than 6:20 for her visit.
Our maid, Mary, was the next witness, and proved a somewhat truculent one. She hadn’t heard anything, and didn’t want to hear anything. It wasn’t as though gentlemen who came to see the Vicar usually got shot. They didn’t. She’d got her own jobs to look after. Colonel Protheroe had arrived at a quarter past six exactly. No, she didn’t look at the clock. She heard the church chime after she had shown him into the study. She didn’t hear any shot. If there had been a shot she’d have heard it. Well, of course, she knew there must have been a shot, since the gentleman was found shot—but there it was. She hadn’t heard it.
The coroner did not press the point. I realized that he and Colonel Melchett were working in agreement.
Mrs. Lestrange had been subpoenaed to give evidence, but a medical certificate,
signed by Dr. Haydock, was produced saying she was too ill to attend.
There was only one other witness, a somewhat doddering old woman. The one who, in Slack’s phrase, “did for” Lawrence Redding.
Mrs. Archer was shown the pistol and recognized it as the one she had seen in Mr. Redding’s sitting room “over against the bookcase, he kept it, lying about.” She had last seen it on the day of the murder. Yes—in answer to a further question—she was quite sure it was there at lunchtime on Thursday—quarter to one when she left.
I remembered what the Inspector had told me, and I was mildly surprised. However vague she might have been when he questioned her, she was quite positive about it now.
The coroner summed up in a negative manner, but with a good deal of firmness. The verdict was given almost immediately:
Murder by Person or Persons unknown.
As I left the room I was aware of a small army of young men with bright, alert faces and a kind of superficial resemblance to each other. Several of them were already known to me by sight as having haunted the Vicarage the last few days. Seeking to escape, I plunged back into the Blue Boar and was lucky enough to run straight into the archaeologist, Dr. Stone. I clutched at him without ceremony.
“Journalists,” I said briefly and expressively. “If you could deliver me from their clutches?”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Clement. Come upstairs with me.”
He led the way up the narrow staircase and into his sitting room, where Miss Cram was sitting rattling the keys of a typewriter with a practised touch. She greeted me with a broad smile of welcome and seized the opportunity to stop work.
“Awful, isn’t it?” she said. “Not knowing who did it, I mean. Not but that I’m disappointed in an inquest. Tame, that’s what I call it. Nothing what you might call spicy from beginning to end.”
“You were there, then, Miss Cram?”
“I was there all right. Fancy your not seeing me. Didn’t you see me? I feel a bit hurt about that. Yes, I do. A gentleman, even if he is a clergyman, ought to have eyes in his head.”
“Were you present also?” I asked Dr. Stone, in an effort to escape from this playful badinage. Young women like Miss Cram always make me feel awkward.
“No, I’m afraid I feel very little interest in such things. I am a man very wrapped up in his own hobby.”
“It must be a very interesting hobby,” I said.
“You know something of it, perhaps?”
I was obliged to confess that I knew next to nothing.
Dr. Stone was not the kind of man whom a confession of ignorance daunts. The result was exactly the same as though I had said that the excavation of barrows was my only relaxation. He surged and eddied into speech. Long barrows, round barrows, stone age, bronze age, paleolithic, neolithic kistvaens and cromlechs, it burst forth in a torrent. I had little to do save nod my head and look intelligent—and that last is perhaps over optimistic. Dr. Stone boomed on. He was a little man. His head was round and bald, his face was round and rosy, and he beamed at you through very strong glasses. I have never known a man so enthusiastic on so little encouragement. He went into every argument for and against his own pet theory—which, by the way, I quite failed to grasp!
He detailed at great length his difference of opinion with Colonel Protheroe.
“An opinionated boor,” he said with heat. “Yes, yes, I know he is dead, and one should speak no ill of the dead. But death does not alter facts. An opinionated boor describes him exactly. Because he had read a few books, he set himself up as an authority—against a man who has made a lifelong study of the subject. My whole life, Mr. Clement, has been given up to this work. My whole life—”
He was spluttering with excitement. Gladys Cram brought him back to earth with a terse sentence.
“You’ll miss your train if you don’t look out,” she observed.
“Oh!” The little man stopped in mid speech and dragged a watch from his pocket. “Bless my soul. Quarter to? Impossible.”
“Once you start talking you never remember the time. What you’d do without me to look after you, I really don’t know.”
“Quite right, my dear, quite right.” He patted her affectionately on the shoulder. “This is a wonderful girl, Mr. Clement. Never forgets anything. I consider myself extremely lucky to have found her.”
“Oh! Go on, Dr. Stone,” said the lady. “You spoil me, you do.”
I could not help feeling that I should be in a material position to add my support to the second school of thought—that which foresees lawful matrimony as the future of Dr. Stone and Miss Cram. I imagined that in her own way Miss Cram was rather a clever young woman.
“You’d better be getting along,” said Miss Cram.
“Yes, yes, so I must.”
He vanished into the room next door and returned carrying a suitcase.
“You are leaving?” I asked in some surprise.
“Just running up to town for a couple of days,” he explained. “My old mother to see tomorrow, some business with my lawyers on Monday. On Tuesday I shall return. By the way, I suppose that Colonel Protheroe’s death will make no difference to our arrangements. As regards the barrow, I mean. Mrs. Protheroe will have no objection to our continuing the work?”
“I should not think so.”
As he spoke, I wondered who actually would be in authority at Old Hall. It was just possible that Protheroe might have left it to Lettice. I felt that it would be interesting to know the contents of Protheroe’s will.
“Causes a lot of trouble in a family, a death does,” remarked Miss Cram, with a kind of gloomy relish. “You wouldn’t believe what a nasty spirit there sometimes is.”
“Well, I must really be going.” Dr. Stone made ineffectual attempts to control the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to his rescue. He protested.
“Don’t trouble—don’t trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless there will be somebody downstairs.”
But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspect that they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was getting on, so we set out together to the station, Dr. Stone carrying the suitcase, and I holding the rug and umbrella.
Dr. Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurried along.
“Really too good of you—didn’t mean—to trouble you … Hope we shan’t miss—the train—Gladys is a good girl—really a wonderful girl—a very sweet nature—not too happy at home, I’m afraid—absolutely—the heart of a child—heart of a child. I do assure you, in spite of—difference in our ages—find a lot in common….”
We saw Lawrence Redding’s cottage just as we turned off to the station. It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observed two young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and a couple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.
“Nice fellow, young Redding,” I remarked, to see what my companion would say.
He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say anything, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.
“Dangerous,” he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.
“Dangerous?”
“Most dangerous. Innocent girls—know no better—taken in by a fellow like that—always hanging round women … No good.”
From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had not passed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.
“Goodness,” ejaculated Dr. Stone. “The train!”
We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint. A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was just coming in.
At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisite young man, and I recognized Miss Marple’s nephew just arriving. He is, I think, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides himself on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt that vulgar contact
is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. I apologized hastily and we passed in. Dr. Stone climbed on the train and I handed up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.
I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, but our local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just setting out for the village. I walked beside him.
“Close shave that,” he observed. “Well, how did the inquest go, Mr. Clement?”
I gave him the verdict.
“Oh! So that’s what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Where’s Dr. Stone off to?”
I repeated what he had told me.
“Lucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr. Clement, it’s a crying shame. Disgraceful, that’s what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesday—no, Thursday—yes, Thursday it was—I remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the company—and the murder put it out of my head—yes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6:50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I don’t mind. But if the train doesn’t get in till twenty past seven, well, you can’t get home before half past. What I say is, why call it the 6:50?”
“Quite so,” I said, and wishing to escape from the monologue I broke away with the excuse that I had something to say to Lawrence Redding whom I saw approaching us on the other side of the road.
Nineteen
“Very glad to have met you,” said Lawrence. “Come to my place.”
We turned in at the little rustic gate, went up the path, and he drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.
“You keep the door locked now,” I observed.
“Yes.” He laughed rather bitterly. “Case of stable door when the steed is gone, eh? It is rather like that. You know, padre,” he held the door open and I passed inside, “there’s something about all this business that I don’t like. It’s too much of—how shall I put it—an inside job. Someone knew about that pistol of mine. That means that the murderer, whoever he was, must have actually been in this house—perhaps even had a drink with me.”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 14