寓所谜案12

Eleven

I saw at a glance that Colonel Melchett and Inspector¹ Slack had not beenseeing eye to eye about the case. Melchett looked flushed and annoyedand the Inspector looked sulky.

“I’m sorry to say,” said Melchett, “that Inspector Slack doesn’t agree withme in considering young Redding innocent.”

“If he didn’t do it, what does he go and say he did it for?” asked Slacksceptically.

“Mrs. Protheroe acted in an exactly similar fashion, remember, Slack.”

“That’s different. She’s a woman, and women act in that silly way. I’mnot saying she did it for a moment. She heard he was accused and shetrumped up a story. I’m used to that sort of game. You wouldn’t believethe fool things I’ve known women do. But Redding’s different. He’s got hishead screwed on all right. And if he admits he did it, well, I say he did doit. It’s his pistol—you can’t get away from that. And thanks to this businessof Mrs. Protheroe, we know the motive². That was the weak point before,but now we know it—why, the whole thing’s plain sailing.”

“You think he can have shot him earlier? At six thirty, say?”

“He can’t have done that.”

“You’ve checked up his movements?”

The Inspector nodded.

“He was in the village near the Blue Boar at ten past six. From there hecame along the back lane where you say the old lady next door saw him—she doesn’t miss much, I should say—and kept his appointment with Mrs.

Protheroe in the studio in the garden. They left there together just after sixthirty, and went along the lane to the village, being joined by Dr. Stone. Hecorroborates that all right—I’ve seen him. They all stood talking just bythe post office for a few minutes, then Mrs. Protheroe went into Miss Hart-nell’s to borrow a gardening magazine. That’s all right too. I’ve seen MissHartnell. Mrs. Protheroe remained there talking to her till just on seveno’clock when she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and said she mustget home.”

“What was her manner?”

“Very easy and pleasant, Miss Hartnell said. She seemed in good spirits—Miss Hartnell is quite sure there was nothing on her mind.”

“Well, go on.”

“Redding, he went with Dr. Stone to the Blue Boar and they had a drinktogether. He left there at twenty minutes to seven, went rapidly along thevillage street and down the road to the Vicarage. Lots of people saw him.”

“Not down the back lane this time?” commented the Colonel.

“No—he came to the front, asked for the Vicar, heard Colonel Protheroewas there, went in—and shot him—just as he said he did! That’s the truthof it, and we needn’t look further.”

Melchett shook his head.

“There’s the doctor’s evidence. You can’t get away from that. Protheroewas shot not later than six thirty.”

“Oh, doctors!” Inspector Slack looked contemptuous. “If you’re going tobelieve doctors. Take out all your teeth—that’s what they do nowadays—and then say they’re very sorry, but all the time it was appendicitis³. Doc-tors!”

“This isn’t a question of diagnosis⁴. Dr. Haydock was absolutely positiveon the point. You can’t go against the medical evidence, Slack.”

“And there’s my evidence for what it is worth,” I said, suddenly recallinga forgotten incident. “I touched the body and it was cold. That I can swearto.”

“You see, Slack?” said Melchett.

“Well, of course, if that’s so. But there it was—a beautiful case. Mr. Red-ding only too anxious to be hanged, so to speak.”

“That, in itself, strikes me as a little unnatural,” observed ColonelMelchett.

“Well, there’s no accounting⁵ for tastes,” said the Inspector. “There’s a lotof gentlemen went a bit balmy after the war. Now, I suppose, it meansstarting again at the beginning.” He turned on me. “Why you went out ofyour way to mislead me about the clock, sir, I can’t think. Obstructing⁶ theends of justice, that’s what that was.”

“I tried to tell you on three separate occasions,” I said. “And each timeyou shut me up and refused to listen.”

“That’s just a way of speaking, sir. You could have told me perfectly⁷ wellif you had had a mind to. The clock and the note seemed to tally⁸ perfectly.

Now, according to you, the clock was all wrong. I never knew such a case.

What’s the sense of keeping a clock a quarter of an hour fast anyway?”

“It is supposed,” I said, “to induce punctuality.”

“I don’t think we need go further into that now, Inspector,” said ColonelMelchett tactfully. “What we want now is the true story from both Mrs.

Protheroe and young Redding. I telephoned to Haydock and asked him tobring Mrs. Protheroe over here with him. They ought to be here in about aquarter of an hour. I think it would be as well to have Redding here first.”

“I’ll get on to the station,” said Inspector Slack, and took up the tele-phone.

“And now,” he said, replacing the receiver, “we’ll get to work on thisroom.” He looked at me in a meaningful fashion.

“Perhaps,” I said, “you’d like me out of the way.”

The Inspector immediately opened the door for me. Melchett called out:

“Come back when young Redding arrives, will you, Vicar? You’re afriend of his and you may have sufficient influence to persuade him tospeak the truth.”

I found my wife and Miss Marple with their heads together.

“We’ve been discussing all sorts of possibilities,” said Griselda. “I wishyou’d solve the case, Miss Marple, like you did the time Miss Wetherby’sgill of picked shrimps⁹ disappeared. And all because it reminded you ofsomething quite different about a sack of coals.”

“You’re laughing, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “but after all, that is avery sound way of arriving at the truth. It’s really what people call intu-ition and make such a fuss about. Intuition is like reading a word withouthaving to spell it out. A child can’t do that because it has had so little ex-perience. But a grown-up person knows the word because they’ve seen itoften before. You catch my meaning, Vicar?”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “I think I do. You mean that if a thing reminds youof something else—well, it’s probably the same kind of thing.”

“Exactly.”

“And what precisely¹⁰ does the murder of Colonel Protheroe remind youof?”

Miss Marple sighed.

“That is just the difficulty. So many parallels come to the mind. For in-stance, there was Major Hargreaves, a churchwarden and a man highlyrespected in every way. And all the time he was keeping a separate secondestablishment—a former housemaid, just think of it! And five children—actually five children—a terrible shock to his wife and daughter.”

I tried hard to visualize¹¹ Colonel Protheroe in the r?le of secret sinnerand failed.

“And then there was that laundry business,” went on Miss Marple. “MissHartnell’s opal pin—left most imprudently in a frilled blouse and sent tothe laundry. And the woman who took it didn’t want it in the least andwasn’t by any means a thief. She simply hid it in another woman’s houseand told the police she’d seen this other woman take it. Spite, you know,sheer spite. It’s an astonishing motive—spite. A man in it, of course. Therealways is.”

This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote.

“And then there was poor Elwell’s daughter—such a pretty ethereal girl—tried to stifle¹² her little brother. And there was the money for the ChoirBoys’ Outing (before your time, Vicar) actually taken by the organist. Hiswife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think so many things—toomany. It’s very hard to arrive at the truth.”

“I wish you would tell me,” I said, “who were the seven suspects?”

“The seven suspects?”

“You said you could think of seven people who would—well, be glad ofColonel Protheroe’s death.”

“Did I? Yes, I remember I did.”

“Was that true?”

“Oh! Certainly it was true. But I mustn’t mention names. You can thinkof them quite easily yourself. I am sure.”

“Indeed I can’t. There is Lettice Protheroe, I suppose, since she probablycomes into money on her father’s death. But it is absurd to think of her insuch a connection, and outside her I can think of nobody.”

“And you, my dear?” said Miss Marple, turning to Griselda.

Rather to my surprise Griselda coloured up. Something very like tearsstarted into her eyes. She clenched¹³ both her small hands.

“Oh!” she cried indignantly. “People are hateful — hateful. The thingsthey say! The beastly things they say….”

I looked at her curiously¹⁴. It is very unlike Griselda to be so upset. Shenoticed my glance and tried to smile.

“Don’t look at me as though I were an interesting specimen¹⁵ you didn’tunderstand, Len. Don’t let’s get heated and wander from the point. I don’tbelieve that it was Lawrence or Anne, and Lettice is out of the question.

There must be some clue or other that would help us.”

“There is the note, of course,” said Miss Marple. “You will remember mysaying this morning that that struck me as exceedingly peculiar¹⁶.”

“It seems to fix the time of his death with remarkable¹⁷ accuracy,” I said.

“And yet, is that possible? Mrs. Protheroe would only have just left thestudy. She would hardly have had time to reach the studio. The only wayin which I can account for it is that he consulted his own watch and thathis watch was slow. That seems to me a feasible solution.”

“I have another idea,” said Griselda. “Suppose, Len, that the clock hadalready been put back—no, that comes to the same thing—how stupid ofme!”

“It hadn’t been altered when I left,” I said. “I remember comparing itwith my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present mat-ter.”

“What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Griselda.

“My dear, I confess I wasn’t thinking about it from that point of view atall. What strikes me as so curious, and has done from the first, is the sub-ject matter of that letter.”

“I don’t see that,” I said. “Colonel Protheroe merely wrote that hecouldn’t wait any longer—”

“At twenty minutes past six?” said Miss Marple. “Your maid, Mary, hadalready told him that you wouldn’t be in till half past six at the earliest,and he appeared to be quite willing to wait until then. And yet at twentypast six he sits down and says he ‘can’t wait any longer.’”

I stared at the old lady, feeling an increased respect for her mentalpowers. Her keen wits had seen what we had failed to perceive. It was anodd thing—a very odd thing.

“If only,” I said, “the letter hadn’t been dated—”

Miss Marple nodded her head.

“Exactly,” she said. “If it hadn’t been dated!”

I cast my mind back, trying to recall that sheet of notepaper and theblurred scrawl¹⁸, and at the top that neatly¹⁹ printed 6:20. Surely these figureswere on a different scale to the rest of the letter. I gave a gasp²⁰.

“Supposing,” I said, “it wasn’t dated. Supposing that round about 6:30Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldn’t wait anylonger. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in through thewindow—”

“Or through the door,” suggested Griselda.

“He’d hear the door and look up.”

“Colonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember,” said Miss Marple.

“Yes, that’s true. He wouldn’t hear it. Whichever way the murderercame, he stole up behind the Colonel and shot him. Then he saw the noteand the clock and the idea came to him. He put 6:20 at the top of the letterand he altered the clock to 6:22. It was a clever idea. It gave him, or so hewould think, a perfect alibi²¹.”

“And what we want to find,” said Griselda, “is someone who has a cast-iron alibi for 6:20, but no alibi at all for—well, that isn’t so easy. One can’tfix the time.”

“We can fix it within very narrow limits,” I said. “Haydock places 6:30 asthe outside limit of time. I suppose one could perhaps shift it to 6:35 fromthe reasoning we have just been following out, it seems clear that Pro-theroe would not have got impatient before 6:30. I think we can say we doknow pretty well.”

“Then that shot I heard—yes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I thoughtnothing about it—nothing at all. Most vexing²². And yet, now I try to recol-lect, it does seem to me that it was different from the usual sort of shot onehears. Yes, there was a difference.”

“Louder?” I suggested.

No, Miss Marple didn’t think it had been louder. In fact, she found ithard to say in what way it had been different, but she still insisted that itwas.

I thought she was probably persuading herself of the fact rather than ac-tually remembering it, but she had just contributed such a valuable newoutlook to the problem that I felt highly respectful towards her.

She rose, murmuring that she must really get back — it had been sotempting just to run over and discuss the case with dear Griselda. I escor-ted her to the boundary wall and the back gate and returned to findGriselda wrapped in thought.

“Still puzzling over that note?” I asked.

“No.”

She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.

“Len, I’ve been thinking. How badly someone must have hated AnneProtheroe!”

“Hated her?”

“Yes. Don’t you see? There’s no real evidence against Lawrence—all theevidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens totake it into his head to come here. If he hadn’t—well, no one would havethought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different. Supposesomeone knew that she was here at exactly 6:20—the clock and the timeon the letter—everything pointing to her. I don’t think it was only becauseof an alibi it was moved to that exact time—I think there was more in itthan that—a direct attempt to fasten the business on her. If it hadn’t beenfor Miss Marple saying she hadn’t got the pistol with her and noticing thatshe was only a moment before going down to the studio—Yes, if it hadn’tbeen for that …” She shivered again. “Len, I feel that someone hated AnneProtheroe very much. I—I don’t like it.”

 

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