“She was out playing tennis somewhere. She hadn’t got home yet.” There was a pause, and then Griselda said:
“You know, Len, she was really very quiet—very queer indeed.”
“The shock,” I suggested.
“Yes—I suppose so. And yet—” Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. “It wasn’t like that, somehow. She didn’t seem so much bowled over as—well—terrified.”
“Terrified?”
“Yes—not showing it, you know. At least not meaning to show it. But a queer, watchful look in her eyes. I wonder if she has a sort of idea who did kill him. She asked again and again if anyone were suspected.”
“Did she?” I said thoughtfully.
“Yes. Of course Anne’s got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasn’t as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything.”
“Death alters one’s feelings sometimes,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Dennis came in and was full of excitement over a footprint he had found in one of the flower beds. He was sure that the police had overlooked it and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery.
I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to “study the latest developments,” as he said.
Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morning’s sensational bit of news.
We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony.
“Would you believe it? The baker’s just told me. They’ve arrested young Mr. Redding.”
“Arrested Lawrence,” cried Griselda incredulously. “Impossible. It must be some stupid mistake.”
“No mistake about it, mum,” said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. “Mr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and ‘I did it,’ he says. Just like that.”
She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other.
“Oh! It isn’t true,” said Griselda. “It can’t be true.”
She noticed my silence, and said: “Len, you don’t think it’s true?”
I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.
“He must be mad,” said Griselda. “Absolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?”
“That doesn’t sound at all a likely thing to happen.”
“But it must have been an accident of some kind. Because there’s not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?”
I could have answered that question very decidedly, but I wished to spare Anne Protheroe as far as possible. There might still be a chance of keeping her name out of it.
“Remember they had had a quarrel,” I said.
“About Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but that’s absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretly—well, that’s not a reason for killing her father.”
“We don’t know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda.”
“You do believe it, Len! Oh! How can you! I tell you, I’m sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head.”
“Remember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman.”
“Yes, but—oh! It’s impossible.”
“There’s the clock, too,” I said. “This explains the clock. Lawrence must have put it back to 6:20 with the idea of making an alibi for himself. Look how Inspector Slack fell into the trap.”
“You’re wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. ‘Keeping the Vicar up to time!’ he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6:22. He’d have put the hands somewhere possible—like a quarter to seven.”
“He mayn’t have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast.”
Griselda disagreed.
“No, if you were committing a murder, you’d be awfully careful about things like that.”
“You don’t know, my dear,” I said mildly. “You’ve never done one.”
Before Griselda could reply, a shadow fell across the breakfast table, and a very gentle voice said:
“I hope I am not intruding. You must forgive me. But in the sad circumstances—the very sad circumstances….”
It was our neighbour, Miss Marple. Accepting our polite disclaimers, she stepped in through the window, and I drew up a chair for her. She looked faintly flushed and quite excited.
“Very terrible, is it not? Poor Colonel Protheroe. Not a very pleasant man, perhaps, and not exactly popular, but it’s none the less sad for that. And actually shot in the Vicarage study, I understand?”
I said that that had indeed been the case.
“But the dear Vicar was not here at the time?” Miss Marple questioned of Griselda. I explained where I had been.
“Mr. Dennis is not with you this morning?” said Miss Marple, glancing round.
“Dennis,” said Griselda, “fancies himself as an amateur detective. He is very excited about a footprint he found in one of the flower beds, and I fancy has gone off to tell the police about it.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Marple. “Such a to-do, is it not? And Mr. Dennis thinks he knows who committed the crime. Well, I suppose we all think we know.”
“You mean it is obvious?” said Griselda.
“No, dear, I didn’t mean that at all. I dare say everyone thinks it is somebody different. That is why it is so important to have proofs. I, for instance, am quite convinced I know who did it. But I must admit I haven’t one shadow of proof. One must, I know, be very careful of what one says at a time like this—criminal libel, don’t they call it? I had made up my mind to be most careful with Inspector Slack. He sent word he would come and see me this morning, but now he has just phoned up to say it won’t be necessary after all.”
“I suppose, since the arrest, it isn’t necessary,” I said.
“The arrest?” Miss Marple leaned forward, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I didn’t know there had been an arrest.”
It is so seldom that Miss Marple is worse informed than we are that I had taken it for granted that she would know the latest developments.
“It seems we have been talking at cross purposes,” I said. “Yes, there has been an arrest—Lawrence Redding.”
“Lawrence Redding?” Miss Marple seemed very surprised. “Now I should not have thought—”
Griselda interrupted vehemently.
“I can’t believe it even now. No, not though he has actually confessed.”
“Confessed?” said Miss Marple. “You say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at sea—yes, sadly at sea.”
“I can’t help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,” said Griselda. “Don’t you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.”
Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.
“He gave himself up, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh!” said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. “I am so glad—so very glad.”
I looked at her in some surprise.
“It shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,” I said.
“Remorse?” Miss Marple looked very surprised. “Oh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you don’t think that he is guilty?”
It was my turn to stare.
“But since he has confessed—”
“Yes, but that just proves it, doesn’t it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.”
“No,” I said. “I may be dense, but I can’t see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the o
bject of pretending you have.”
“Oh, of course, there’s a reason!” said Miss Marple. “Naturally. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.”
She turned to Griselda.
“Don’t you agree with me, my dear?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Griselda. “It’s difficult to know what to think. I can’t see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.”
“If you had seen his face last night—” I began.
“Tell me,” said Miss Marple.
I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.
When I had finished she said:
“I know that I am very often rather foolish and don’t take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.
“It seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creature’s life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a little flurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself.”
“We don’t know the circumstances,” I argued. “If there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that this is what did actually occur.”
“I know, dear Mr. Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr. Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the Colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letter—at least that is what my maid told me.”
“Quite true,” said Griselda. “He seems to have been writing a note to say he couldn’t wait any longer. The note was dated 6:20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6:22, and that’s just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.”
She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.
“Very curious,” said Miss Marple. “Very curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I mean—”
She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring “Morning.”
She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:
“They’ve arrested Lawrence, I hear.”
“Yes,” said Griselda. “It’s been a great shock to us.”
“I never really thought anyone would murder father,” said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. “Lots of people wanted to, I’m sure. There are times when I’d have liked to do it myself.”
“Won’t you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?” asked Griselda.
“No, thank you. I just drifted round to see if you’d got my beret here—a queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day.”
“If you did, it’s there still,” said Griselda. “Mary never tidies anything.”
“I’ll go and see,” said Lettice, rising. “Sorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line.”
“I’m afraid you can’t get it now,” I said. “Inspector Slack has locked the room up.”
“Oh, what a bore! Can’t we get in through the window?”
“I’m afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret won’t be much good to you at present?”
“You mean mourning and all that? I shan’t bother about mourning. I think it’s an awfully archaic idea. It’s a nuisance about Lawrence—yes, it’s a nuisance.”
She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.
“I suppose it’s all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thing….”
Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.
A curious smile came to Lettice’s lips.
“I think,” she said softly, “I’ll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested.”
She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple. “Why did you step on my foot?”
The old lady was smiling.
“I thought you were going to say something, my dear. And it is often so much better to let things develop on their own lines. I don’t think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. She’s got a very definite idea in her head and she’s acting upon it.”
Mary gave a loud knock on the dining room door and entered hard upon it.
“What is it?” said Griselda. “And Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. I’ve told you about it before.”
“Thought you might be busy,” said Mary. “Colonel Melchett’s here. Wants to see the master.”
Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.
“I thought you wouldn’t like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing room,” went on Mary. “Shall I clear?”
“Not yet,” said Griselda. “I’ll ring.”
She turned to Miss Marple and I left the room.
Seven
Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpected. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.
“Good morning, Vicar,” he said. “Nasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didn’t. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasn’t upset your missus?”
I said Griselda had taken it very well.
“That’s lucky. Rotten thing to happen in one’s house. I must say I’m surprised at young Redding—doing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for anyone’s feelings.”
A wild desire to laugh came over me, but Colonel Melchett evidently saw nothing odd in the idea of a murderer being considerate, so I held my peace.
“I must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up,” continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.
“How did it happen exactly?”
“Last night. About ten o’clock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol, and says: ‘Here I am. I did it.’ Just like that.”
“What account does he give of the business?”
“Precious little. He was warned, of course, about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see you—found Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Won’t say what the quarrel was about. Look here, Clement—just between you and me, do you know anything about it? I’ve heard rumours—about his being forbidden the house and all that. What was it—did he seduce the daughter, or what? We don’t want to bring the girl into it more than we can help for everybody’s sake. Was that the trouble?”
“No,” I said. “You can take it from me that it was something quite different, but I can’t say more at the present juncture.”
He nodded and rose.
“I’m glad to know. There’s a lot of talk. Too many women in this part of the world. Well, I must get along. I’ve got to see Haydock. He was called out to some case or other, but he ought to be back by now. I don’t mind telling you I’m sorry about Redding. He always struck me as a decent young chap. Perhaps they’ll think out some kind of defence for him. Aftereffects of war, shell shock, or something. Especially if no very adequate motive turns up. I must be off. Like to come along?”
I said I would like to very much, and we went out together.
Haydock’s house is next door to mine. His servant said the doctor had just come in and showed us into the dining room, where
Haydock was sitting down to a steaming plate of eggs and bacon. He greeted me with an amiable nod.
“Sorry I had to go out. Confinement case. I’ve been up most of the night, over your business. I’ve got the bullet for you.”
He shoved a little box along the table. Melchett examined it.
“Point two five?”
Haydock nodded.
“I’ll keep the technical details for the inquest,” he said. “All you want to know is that death was practically instantaneous. Silly young fool, what did he want to do it for? Amazing, by the way, that nobody heard the shot.”
“Yes,” said Melchett, “that surprises me.”
“The kitchen window gives on the other side of the house,” I said. “With the study door, the pantry door, and the kitchen door all shut, I doubt if you would hear anything, and there was no one but the maid in the house.”
“H’m,” said Melchett. “It’s odd, all the same. I wonder the old lady—what’s her name—Marple, didn’t hear it. The study window was open.”
“Perhaps she did,” said Haydock.
“I don’t think she did,” said I. “She was over at the Vicarage just now and she didn’t mention anything of the kind which I’m certain she would have done if there had been anything to tell.”
“May have heard it and paid no attention to it—thought it was a car backfiring.”
It struck me that Haydock was looking much more jovial and good-humoured this morning. He seemed like a man who was decorously trying to subdue unusually good spirits.
“Or what about a silencer?” he added. “That’s quite likely. Nobody would hear anything then.”
Melchett shook his head.
“Slack didn’t find anything of the kind, and he asked Redding, and Redding didn’t seem to know what he was talking about at first and then denied point blank using anything of the kind. And I suppose one can take his word for it.”
“Yes, indeed, poor devil.”
“Damned young fool,” said Colonel Melchett. “Sorry, Clement. But he really is! Somehow one can’t get used to thinking of him as a murderer.”
“Any motive?” asked Haydock, taking a final draught of coffee and pushing back his chair.
The Murder at the Vicarage (Agatha Christie Mysteries Collection) Page 5