The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms—a past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroe’s ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the facts—and Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I say—a nightmare only—but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.

  I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.

  She handed me back the note with a little nod.

  “That’s been all over the village,” she said. “And it did look rather suspicious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.”

  She paused a minute and then went on.

  “But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say—and believe it my duty—is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you don’t believe it—well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life.”

  Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided.

  “That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five thirty, Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the Vicar, adopting a woman’s voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).

  “Mrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. And—a very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way)—Mrs. Protheroe took no handbag with her. Really a most unusual thing for a woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my garden and stops and speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of noticing that she has no weapon with her and also that she is quite her normal self. They realized, you see, that I am a noticing kind of person. She disappears round the corner of the house to the study window. The poor Colonel is sitting at the desk writing his letter to you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pistol from the bowl where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him and shoots him through the head, throws down the pistol and is out again like a flash, and going down the garden to the studio. Nearly anyone would swear that there couldn’t have been time!”

  “But the shot?” objected the Colonel. “You didn’t hear the shot?”

  “There is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I gather from detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze that the maid, Clara, heard might have actually been the shot? But no matter. Mrs. Protheroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in together—and, human nature being what it is, I’m afraid they realize that I shan’t leave the garden till they come out again!”

  I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her humorous perception of her own weakness.

  “When they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. And there, in reality, they made a mistake. Because if they had really said good-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked very different. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply dare not appear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are careful to provide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe. Finally Mr. Redding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he dares. He probably saw you on the footpath from far away and was able to time matters nicely. He picks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves the forged letter with the time on it written in a different ink and apparently in a different handwriting. When the forgery is discovered it will look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate Anne Protheroe.

  “But when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written by Colonel Protheroe—something quite unexpected. And being a very intelligent young man, and seeing that this letter may come in very useful to him, he takes it away with him. He alters the hands of the clock to the same time as the letter—knowing that it is always kept a quarter of an hour fast. The same idea—attempt to throw suspicion on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves, meeting you outside the gate, and acting the part of someone nearly distraught. As I say, he is really most intelligent. What would a murderer who had committed a crime try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So that is just what Mr. Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, but marches into the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ridiculous self-accusation which takes everybody in.”

  There was something fascinating in Miss Marple’s resumé of the case. She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that in this way and in no other could the crime have been committed.

  “What about the shot heard in the wood?” I asked. “Was that the coincidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?”

  “Oh, dear, no!” Miss Marple shook her head briskly. “That wasn’t a coincidence—very far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a shot should be heard—otherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might have continued. How Mr. Redding arranged it, I don’t quite know. But I understand that picric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it, and you will remember, dear Vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying a large stone just in the part of the wood where you picked up that crystal later. Gentlemen are so clever at arranging things—the stone suspended above the crystals and then a time fuse—or do I mean a slow match? Something that would take about twenty minutes to burn through—so that the explosion would come about 6:30 when he and Mrs. Protheroe had come out of the studio and were in full view. A very safe device because what would there be to find afterwards—only a big stone! But even that he tried to remove—when you came upon him.”

  “I believe you are right,” I exclaimed, remembering the start of surprise Lawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed natural enough at the time, but now….

  Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her head shrewdly.

  “Yes,” she said, “it must have been a very nasty shock for him to come across you just then. But he turned it off very well—pretending he was bringing it to me for my rock gardens. Only—” Miss Marple became suddenly very emphatic. “It was the wrong sort of stone for my rock gardens! And that put me on the right track!”

  All this time Colonel Melchett had sat like a man in a trance. Now he showed signs of coming to. He snorted once or twice, blew his nose in a bewildered fashion, and said:

  “Upon my word! Well, upon my word!”

  Beyond that, he did not commit himself. I think that he, like myself, was impressed with the logical certainty of Miss Marple’s conclusions. But for the moment he was not willing to admit it.

  Instead, he stretched out a hand, picked up the crumpled letter and barked out:

  “All very well. But how do you account for this fellow Hawes! Why, he actually rang up and confessed.”

  “Yes, that was what was so providential. The Vicar’s sermon, doubtless. You know, dear Mr. Clement, you really preached a most remarkable sermon. It must have affected Mr. Hawes deeply. He could bear it no longer, and felt he must confess—about the misappropriations of the church funds.”

  “What?”

  “Yes—and that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I hope and trust it is saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the matter, Mr. Redding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect he hid it in some safe place) and waited till he found out for certain to whom it referred. He soon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes. I understand he came back here with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a long time with him. I suspect that he then substituted a cachet of his own for one of Mr. Hawes’s, and slipped this letter in the pocket of Mr. Hawes’s dressing gown. The poor young man would swallow t
he fatal cachet in all innocence—after his death his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclusion that he had shot Colonel Protheroe and taken his own life out of remorse. I rather fancy Mr. Hawes must have found that letter tonight just after taking the fatal cachet. In his disordered state, it must have seemed like something supernatural, and, coming on top of the Vicar’s sermon, it must have impelled him to confess the whole thing.”

  “Upon my word,” said Colonel Melchett. “Upon my word! Most extraordinary! I—I—don’t believe a word of it.”

  He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. It must have sounded so in his own ears, for he went on:

  “And can you explain the other telephone call—the one from Mr. Redding’s cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?”

  “Ah!” said Miss Marple. “That is what I call the coincidence. Dear Griselda sent that call—she and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy. They had heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about the Vicar, and they thought of this (perhaps rather childish) way of silencing her. The coincidence lies in the fact that the call should have been put through at exactly the same time as the fake shot from the wood. It led one to believe that the two must be connected.”

  I suddenly remembered how everyone who spoke of that shot had described it as “different” from the usual shot. They had been right. Yet how hard to explain just in what way the “difference” of the shot consisted.

  Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

  “Your solution is a very plausible one, Miss Marple,” he said. “But you will allow me to point out that there is not a shadow of proof.”

  “I know,” said Miss Marple. “But you believe it to be true, don’t you?”

  There was a pause, then the Colonel said almost reluctantly:

  “Yes, I do. Dash it all, it’s the only way the thing could have happened. But there’s no proof—not an atom.”

  Miss Marple coughed.

  “That is why I thought perhaps under the circumstances—”

  “Yes?”

  “A little trap might be permissable.”

  Thirty-one

  Colonel Melchett and I both stared at her.

  “A trap? What kind of a trap?”

  Miss Marple was a little diffident, but it was clear that she had a plan fully outlined.

  “Supposing Mr. Redding were to be rung up on the telephone and warned.”

  Colonel Melchett smiled.

  “‘All is discovered. Fly!’ That’s an old wheeze, Miss Marple. Not that it isn’t often successful! But I think in this case young Redding is too downy a bird to be caught that way.”

  “It would have to be something specific. I quite realize that,” said Miss Marple. “I would suggest—this is just a mere suggestion—that the warning should come from somebody who is known to have rather unusual views on these matters. Dr. Haydock’s conversation would lead anyone to suppose that he might view such a thing as murder from an unusual angle. If he were to hint that somebody—Mrs. Sadler—or one of her children—had actually happened to see the transposing of the cachets—well, of course, if Mr. Redding is an innocent man, that statement will mean nothing to him, but if he isn’t—”

  “Well, he might just possibly do something foolish.”

  “And deliver himself into our hands. It’s possible. Very ingenious, Miss Marple. But will Haydock stand for it? As you say, his views—”

  Miss Marple interrupted him brightly.

  “Oh, but that’s theory! So very different from practice, isn’t it? But anyway, here he is, so we can ask him.”

  Haydock was, I think, rather astonished to find Miss Marple with us. He looked tired and haggard.

  “It’s been a near thing,” he said. “A very near thing. But he’s going to pull through. It’s a doctor’s business to save his patient and I saved him, but I’d have been just as glad if I hadn’t pulled it off.”

  “You may think differently,” said Melchett, “when you have heard what we have to tell you.”

  And briefly and succinctly, he put Miss Marple’s theory of the crime before the doctor, ending up with her final suggestion.

  We were then privileged to see exactly what Miss Marple meant by the difference between theory and practice.

  Haydock’s views appeared to have undergone a complete transformation. He would, I think, have liked Lawrence Redding’s head on a charger. It was not, I imagine, the murder of Colonel Protheroe that so stirred his rancour. It was the assault on the unlucky Hawes.

  “The damned scoundrel,” said Haydock. “The damned scoundrel! That poor devil Hawes. He’s got a mother and a sister too. The stigma of being the mother and sister of a murderer would have rested on them for life, and think of their mental anguish. Of all the cowardly dastardly tricks!”

  For sheer primitive rage, commend me to a thoroughgoing humanitarian when you get him well roused.

  “If this thing’s true,” he said, “you can count on me. The fellow’s not fit to live. A defenceless chap like Hawes.”

  A lame dog of any kind can always count on Haydock’s sympathy.

  He was eagerly arranging details with Melchett when Miss Marple rose and I insisted on seeing her home.

  “It is most kind of you, Mr. Clement,” said Miss Marple, as we walked down the deserted street. “Dear me, past twelve o’clock. I hope Raymond has gone to bed and not waited up.”

  “He should have accompanied you,” I said.

  “I didn’t let him know I was going,” said Miss Marple.

  I smiled suddenly as I remembered Raymond West’s subtle psychological analysis of the crime.

  “If your theory turns out to be the truth—which I for one do not doubt for a minute,” I said, “you will have a very good score over your nephew.”

  Miss Marple smiled also—an indulgent smile.

  “I remember a saying of my Great Aunt Fanny’s. I was sixteen at the time and thought it particularly foolish.”

  “Yes?” I inquired.

  “She used to say: ‘The young people think the old people are fools; but the old people know the young people are fools!’”

  Thirty-two

  There is little more to be told. Miss Marple’s plan succeeded. Lawrence Redding was not an innocent man, and the hint of a witness of the change of capsule did indeed cause him to do “something foolish.” Such is the power of an evil conscience.

  He was, of course, peculiarly placed. His first impulse, I imagine, must have been to cut and run. But there was his accomplice to consider. He could not leave without getting word to her, and he dared not wait till morning. So he went up to Old Hall that night—and two of Colonel Melchett’s most efficient officers followed him. He threw gravel at Anne Protheroe’s window, aroused her, and an urgent whisper brought her down to speak with him. Doubtless they felt safer outside than in—with the possibility of Lettice waking. But as it happened, the two police officers were able to overhear the conversation in full. It left the matter in no doubt. Miss Marple had been right on every count.

  The trial of Lawrence Redding and Anne Protheroe is a matter of public knowledge. I do not propose to go into it. I will only mention that great credit was reflected upon Inspector Slack, whose zeal and intelligence had resulted in the criminals being brought to justice. Naturally, nothing was said of Miss Marple’s share in the business. She herself would have been horrified at the thought of such a thing.

  Lettice came to see me just before the trial took place. She drifted through my study window, wraithlike as ever. She told me then that she had all along been convinced of her stepmother’s complicity. The loss of the yellow beret had been a mere excuse for searching the study. She hoped against hope that she might find something the police had overlooked.

  “You see,” she said in her dreamy voice, “they didn’t hate her like I did. And hate makes things easier for you.”

  Disappointed in the result of her search, she had deliberately dropped
Anne’s earring by the desk.

  “Since I knew she had done it, what did it matter? One way was as good as another. She had killed him.”

  I sighed a little. There are always some things that Lettice will never see. In some respects she is morally colour blind.

  “What are you going to do, Lettice?” I asked.

  “When—when it’s all over, I am going abroad.” She hesitated and then went on. “I am going abroad with my mother.”

  I looked up, startled.

  She nodded.

  “Didn’t you ever guess? Mrs. Lestrange is my mother. She is—is dying, you know. She wanted to see me and so she came down here under an assumed name. Dr. Haydock helped her. He’s a very old friend of hers—he was keen about her once—you can see that! In a way, he still is. Men always went batty about mother, I believe. She’s awfully attractive even now. Anyway, Dr. Haydock did everything he could to help her. She didn’t come down here under her own name because of the disgusting way people talk and gossip. She went to see father that night and told him she was dying and had a great longing to see something of me. Father was a beast. He said she’d forfeited all claim, and that I thought she was dead—as though I had ever swallowed that story! Men like father never see an inch before their noses!

  “But mother is not the sort to give in. She thought it only decent to go to father first, but when he turned her down so brutally she sent a note to me, and I arranged to leave the tennis party early and meet her at the end of the footpath at a quarter past six. We just had a hurried meeting and arranged when to meet again. We left each other before half past six. Afterwards I was terrified that she would be suspected of having killed father. After all, she had got a grudge against him. That’s why I got hold of that old picture of her up in the attic and slashed it about. I was afraid the police might go nosing about and get hold of it and recognize it. Dr. Haydock was frightened too. Sometimes, I believe, he really thought she had done it! Mother is rather a—desperate kind of person. She doesn’t count consequences.”