“You had already deduced something of the kind, had you not?” I asked.
“Yes—yes, indeed. May I ask you, Mr. Clement, what made you come here this evening? That is a point which puzzles me. You and Colonel Melchett—not at all what I should have expected.”
I explained the telephone call and that I believed I had recognized Hawes’s voice. Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully.
“Very interesting. Very providential—if I may use the term. Yes, it brought you here in the nick of time.”
“In the nick of time for what?” I said bitterly.
Miss Marple looked surprised.
“To save Mr. Hawes’s life, of course.”
“Don’t you think,” I said, “that it might be better if Hawes didn’t recover? Better for him—better for everyone. We know the truth now and—”
I stopped—for Miss Marple was nodding her head with such a peculiar vehemence that it made me lose the thread of what I was saying.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course! That’s what he wants you to think! That you know the truth—and that it’s best for everyone as it is. Oh, yes, it all fits in—the letter, and the overdose, and poor Mr. Hawes’s state of mind and his confession. It all fits in—but it’s wrong….”
We stared at her.
“That’s why I am so glad Mr. Hawes is safe—in hospital—where no one can get at him. If he recovers, he’ll tell you the truth.”
“The truth?”
“Yes—that he never touched a hair of Colonel Protheroe’s head.”
“But the telephone call,” I said. “The letter—the overdose. It’s all so clear.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. Oh, he’s very clever! Keeping the letter and using it this way was very clever indeed.”
“Who do you mean,” I said, “by ‘he’?”
“I mean the murderer,” said Miss Marple.
She added very quietly:
“I mean Mr. Lawrence Redding….”
Thirty
We stared at her. I really think that for a moment or two we really believed she was out of her mind. The accusation seemed so utterly preposterous.
Colonel Melchett was the first to speak. He spoke kindly and with a kind of pitying tolerance.
“That is absurd, Miss Marple,” he said. “Young Redding has been completely cleared.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Marple. “He saw to that.”
“On the contrary,” said Colonel Melchett dryly. “He did his best to get himself accused of the murder.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “He took us all in that way—myself as much as anyone else. You will remember, dear Mr. Clement, that I was quite taken aback when I heard Mr. Redding had confessed to the crime. It upset all my ideas and made me think him innocent—when up to then I had felt convinced that he was guilty.”
“Then it was Lawrence Redding you suspected?”
“I know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I never find that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the obvious that is true. Much as I have always liked Mrs. Protheroe, I could not avoid coming to the conclusion that she was completely under Mr. Redding’s thumb and would do anything he told her, and, of course, he is not the kind of young man who would dream of running away with a penniless woman. From his point of view it was necessary that Colonel Protheroe should be removed—and so he removed him. One of those charming young men who have no moral sense.”
Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now he broke out.
“Absolute nonsense—the whole thing! Redding’s time is fully accounted for up to 6:50 and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldn’t have been shot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or do you suggest that Haydock is deliberately lying—the Lord knows why?”
“I think Dr. Haydock’s evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very upright man. And, of course, it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot Colonel Protheroe—not Mr. Redding.”
Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushed back the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver a gentle old-maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements in the most natural way in the world.
“I have not thought it right to speak until now. One’s own belief—even so strong as to amount to knowledge—is not the same as proof. And unless one has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I was saying to dear Mr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance it with any real conviction. And my own explanation was not quite complete—it lacked just one thing—but suddenly, just as I was leaving Mr. Clement’s study, I noticed the palm in the pot by the window—and—well, there the whole thing was! Clear as daylight!”
“Mad—quite mad,” murmured Melchett to me.
But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle ladylike voice.
“I was very sorry to believe what I did—very sorry. Because I liked them both. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when first he and then she both confessed in the most foolish way—well, I was more relieved than I could say. I had been wrong. And I began to think of other people who had a possible motive for wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the way.”
“The seven suspects!” I murmured.
She smiled at me.
“Yes, indeed. There was that man Archer—not likely, but primed with drink (so inflaming) you never know. And, of course, there was your Mary. She’s been walking out with Archer a long time, and she’s a queer-tempered girl. Motive and opportunity—why, she was alone in the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Redding’s house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was Lettice—wanting freedom and money to do as she liked. I’ve known many cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scruple—though, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them.”
I winced.
“And then there was the tennis racquet,” continued Miss Marple.
“The tennis racquet?”
“Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley’s Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motive—for Lettice’s sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and you—not both of you naturally—but alternatively, as the lawyers say.”
“Me?” I exclaimed in lively astonishment.
“Well, yes. I do apologize—and indeed I never really thought—but there was the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in fault—principally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawes—he reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldn’t be absolutely sure—”
“Human nature being what it is,” I ended grimly.
“Exactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda.”
“But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it,” interrupted Melchett. “She returned by the 6:50 train.”
“That’s what she said,” retorted Miss Marple. “One should never go by what people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?”
She looked at me inquiringly.
Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding’s cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day.
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 nig
htmare 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 the fatal cachet in all innocence—after his death his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclus
ion 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.”
The Murder at the Vicarage Page 22