The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  “You usually are, I believe,” I said smiling.

  “That, I am afraid, is what has made me a little conceited,” confessed Miss Marple. “But I have always wondered whether, if some day a really big mystery came along, I should be able to do the same thing. I mean—just solve it correctly. Logically, it ought to be exactly the same thing. After all, a tiny working model of a torpedo is just the same as a real torpedo.”

  “You mean it’s all a question of relativity,” I said slowly. “It should be—logically, I admit. But I don’t know whether it really is.”

  “Surely it must be the same,” said Miss Marple. “The—what one used to call the factors at school—are the same. There’s money, and the mutual attraction people of an—er—opposite sex—and there’s queerness of course—so many people are a little queer, aren’t they?—in fact, most people are when you know them well. And normal people do such astonishing things sometimes, and abnormal people are sometimes so very sane and ordinary. In fact, the only way is to compare people with other people you have known or come across. You’d be surprised if you knew how very few distinct types there are in all.”

  “You frighten me,” I said. “I feel I’m being put under the microscope.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of saying any of this to Colonel Melchett—such an autocratic man, isn’t he?—and poor Inspector Slack—well, he’s exactly like the young lady in the boot shop who wants to sell you patent leather because she’s got it in your size, and doesn’t take any notice of the fact that you want brown calf.”

  That, really, is a very good description of Slack.

  “But you, Mr. Clement, know, I’m sure, quite as much about the crime as Inspector Slack. I thought, if we could work together—”

  “I wonder,” I said. “I think each one of us in his secret heart fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes.”

  Then I told her of the three summonses I had received that afternoon. I told her of Anne’s discovery of the picture with the slashed face. I also told her of Miss Cram’s attitude at the police station, and I described Haydock’s identification of the crystal I had picked up.

  “Having found that myself,” I finished up, “I should like it to be important. But it’s probably got nothing to do with the case.”

  “I have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the library lately,” said Miss Marple, “hoping to find them helpful.”

  “Was there anything in them about picric acid?”

  “I’m afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which a man was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as an ointment.”

  “But as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesn’t seem to enter into the question,” I said.

  Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.

  “I’ve tried,” I said, “to recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly as possible.”

  MY SCHEDULE

  Thursday, 21st inst.

  12:30 p.m.—Colonel Protheroe alters his appointment from six to six fifteen. Overheard by half village very probably.

  12:45—Pistol last seen in its proper place. (But this is doubtful, as Mrs. Archer had previously said she could not remember.)

  5:30 (approx.)—Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe leave Old Hall for village in car.

  5:30 Fake call put through to me from the North Lodge, Old Hall.

  6:15 (or a minute or two earlier)—Colonel Protheroe arrives at Vicarage. Is shown into study by Mary.

  6:20—Mrs. Protheroe comes along back lane and across garden to study window. Colonel Protheroe not visible.

  6:29—Call from Lawrence Redding’s cottage put through to Mrs. Price Ridley (according to Exchange).

  6:30–6:35—Shot heard. (Accepting telephone call time as correct.) Lawrence Redding, Anne Protheroe and Dr. Stone’s evidence seem to point to its being earlier, but Mrs. P.R. probably right.

  6:45—Lawrence Redding arrives Vicarage and finds the body.

  6:48—I meet Lawrence Redding.

  6:49—Body discovered by me.

  6:55—Haydock examines body.

  NOTE.—The only two people who have no kind of alibi for 6:30–6:35 are Miss Cram and Mrs. Lestrange. Miss Cram says she was at the barrow, but no confirmation. It seems reasonable, however, to dismiss her from case as there seems nothing to connect her with it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr. Haydock’s house some time after six to keep an appointment. Where was the appointment, and with whom? It could hardly have been with Colonel Protheroe, as he expected to be engaged with me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange was near the spot at the time the crime was committed, but it seems doubtful what motive she could have had for murdering him. She did not gain by his death, and the Inspector’s theory of blackmail I cannot accept. Mrs. Lestrange is not that kind of woman. Also it seems unlikely that she should have got hold of Lawrence Redding’s pistol.

  “Very clear,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head in approval. “Very clear indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda.”

  “You agree with what I have written?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes—you have put it all beautifully.”

  I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.

  “Miss Marple,” I said. “Who do you suspect? You once said that there were seven people.”

  “Quite that, I should think,” said Miss Marple absently. “I expect every one of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they do.”

  She didn’t ask me who I suspected.

  “The point is,” she said, “that one must provide an explanation for everything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If you have a theory that fits every fact—well, then, it must be the right one. But that’s extremely difficult. If it wasn’t for that note—”

  “The note?” I said, surprised.

  “Yes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along. It’s wrong, somehow.”

  “Surely,” I said, “that is explained now. It was written at six thirty five and another hand—the murderer’s—put the misleading 6:20 at the top. I think that is clearly established.”

  “But even then,” said Miss Marple, “it’s all wrong.”

  “But why?”

  “Listen.” Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. “Mrs. Protheroe passed my garden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and she looked in and she didn’t see Colonel Protheroe.”

  “Because he was writing at the desk,” I said.

  “And that’s what’s all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreed that he wouldn’t sit down to say he couldn’t wait any longer until after half past six—so, why was he sitting at the writing table then?”

  “I never thought of that,” I said slowly.

  “Let us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes to the window and she thinks the room is empty—she must have thought so, because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to meet Mr. Redding. It wouldn’t have been safe. The room must have been absolutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three alternatives, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean—”

  “Well, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was dead already—but I don’t think that’s the most likely one. To begin with he’d only been there about five minutes and she or I would have heard the shot, and secondly, the same difficulty remains about his being at the writing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was sitting at the writing table writing a note, but in that case it must have been a different note altogether. It can’t have been to say he couldn’t wait. And the third—”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Well, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that the room was actually empty.”

  “You mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again and came back later?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why should he have done that?”
/>
  Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.

  “That would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,” I said.

  “One so often has to do that—about everything. Don’t you think so?”

  I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three alternatives that Miss Marple had suggested.

  With a slight sigh the old lady rose to her feet.

  “I must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little chat—though we haven’t got very far, have we?”

  “To tell you the truth,” I said, as I fetched her shawl, “the whole thing seems to me a bewildering maze.”

  “Oh! I wouldn’t say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearly everything. That is, if you admit one coincidence—and I think one coincidence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely.”

  “Do you really think that? About the theory, I mean?” I asked, looking at her.

  “I admit that there is one flaw in my theory—one fact that I can’t get over. Oh! If only that note had been something quite different—”

  She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and absentmindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed-looking plant that stood in a stand.

  “You know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poor thing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I suppose it is she who attends to it?”

  “As much,” I said, “as she attends to anything.”

  “A little raw at present,” suggested Miss Marple.

  “Yes,” I said. “And Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to sack her. Her idea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with us. However, Mary herself gave us notice the other day.”

  “Indeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both.”

  “I haven’t noticed it,” I said. “But, as a matter of fact, it was Lettice Protheroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in rather a temperamental state and found Lettice here and—well, they had words.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the window when she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passed over her face.

  “Oh, dear!” she muttered to herself. “I have been stupid. So that was it. Perfectly possible all the time.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned a worried face upon me.

  “Nothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home and think things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been extremely stupid—almost incredibly so.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said gallantly.

  I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.

  “Can you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?” I asked.

  “I would rather not—just at present. You see, there is still a possibility that I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are at my garden gate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any further.”

  “Is the note still a stumbling block?” I asked, as she passed through the gate and latched it behind her.

  She looked at me abstractedly.

  “The note? Oh! Of course that wasn’t the real note. I never thought it was. Goodnight, Mr. Clement.”

  She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.

  I didn’t know what to think.

  Twenty-seven

  Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most natural thing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss Marple and fetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken up with our preoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten anybody existed in the world except ourselves.

  I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not even now go over and join them, when the doorbell rang.

  I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box, and presuming that this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.

  As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter hastily into my pocket and opened the front door.

  It was Colonel Melchett.

  “Hallo, Clement. I’m on my way home from town in the car. Thought I’d just look in and see if you could give me a drink.”

  “Delighted,” I said. “Come into the study.”

  He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me into the study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett was standing in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his closely cropped moustache.

  “I’ve got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing you’ve ever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going down here? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?”

  “They’re not doing so badly,” I said. “One of them, at all events, thinks she’s got there.”

  “Our friend, Miss Marple, eh?”

  “Our friend, Miss Marple.”

  “Women like that always think they know everything,” said Colonel Melchett.

  He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.

  “It’s probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,” I said. “But I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murderer left by the front door, there’s a chance the boy may have seen him.”

  “Slack questioned him right enough,” said Melchett. “But the boy says he didn’t meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldn’t be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at the Vicarage, at Haydock’s, and at Mrs. Price Ridley’s. Easy enough to dodge him.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose it would be.”

  “On the other hand,” went on Melchett, “if by any chance that rascal Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I doubt very much whether he’d let on. Archer is a cousin of his.”

  “Do you seriously suspect Archer?”

  “Well, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly. Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasn’t Protheroe’s strong point.”

  “No,” I said. “He was a very ruthless man.”

  “What I say is,” said Melchett, “Live and let live. Of course, the law’s the law, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the doubt. That’s what Protheroe never did.”

  “He prided himself on it,” I said.

  There was a pause, and then I asked:

  “What is this ‘astounding bit of news’ you promised me?”

  “Well, it is astounding. You know that unfinished letter that Protheroe was writing when he was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “We got an expert on it—to say whether the 6:20 was added by a different hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroe’s handwriting. And do you know the verdict? That letter was never written by Protheroe at all.”

  “You mean a forgery?”

  “It’s a forgery. The 6:20 they think is written in a different hand again—but they’re not sure about that. The heading is in a different ink, but the letter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it.”

  “Are they certain?”

  “Well, they’re as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expert is! Oh! But they’re sure enough.”

  “Amazing,” I said. Then a memory assailed me.

  “Why,” I said, “I remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasn’t like her husband’s handwriting at all, and I took no notice.”

  “Really?”

  “I thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If there seemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written that note.”

  We looked at each other.

  “It’s curious,” I said slowly. “Miss Marple was saying this evening that that note was all wrong.”

  “Confound the woman, she couldn’t know more about it if she had committed the murder herself.
”

  At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psychology about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind of sinister significance.

  I went over and took up the receiver.

  “This is the Vicarage,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”

  A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:

  “I want to confess,” it said. “My God, I want to confess.”

  “Hallo,” I said, “hallo. Look here you’ve cut me off. What number was that?”

  A languid voice said it didn’t know. It added that it was sorry I had been troubled.

  I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.

  “You once said,” I remarked, “that you would go mad if anyone else accused themselves of the crime.”

  “What about it?”

  “That was someone who wanted to confess … And the Exchange has cut us off.”

  Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.

  “I’ll speak to them.”

  “Do,” I said. “You may have some effect. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going out. I’ve a fancy I recognized that voice.”

  Twenty-eight

  I hurried down the village street. It was eleven o’clock, and at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night the whole village of St. Mary Mead might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Hawes was still up, I stopped and rang the doorbell.

  After what seemed a long time, Hawes’s landlady, Mrs. Sadler, laboriously unfastened two bolts, a chain, and turned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.

  “Why, it’s Vicar!” she exclaimed.

  “Good evening,” I said. “I want to see Mr. Hawes. I see there’s a light in the window, so he’s up still.”

  “That may be. I’ve not seen him since I took up his supper. He’s had a quiet evening—no one to see him, and he’s not been out.”