寓所谜案17

Sixteen

As I went out I ran into Haydock on the doorstep. He glanced sharply afterSlack, who was just passing through the gate, and demanded: “Has hebeen questioning her?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been civil, I hope?”

Civility, to my mind, is an art which Inspector Slack has never learnt,but I presumed that according to his own lights, civil he had been, andanyway, I didn’t want to upset Haydock any further. He was looking wor-ried and upset as it was. So I said he had been quite civil.

Haydock nodded and passed on into the house, and I went on down thevillage street, where I soon caught up to the inspector. I fancy that he waswalking slowly on purpose. Much as he dislikes me, he is not the man tolet dislike stand in the way of acquiring any useful information.

“Do you know anything about the lady?” he asked me point blank.

I said I knew nothing whatever.

“She’s never said anything about why she came here to live?”

“No.”

“Yet you go and see her?”

“It is one of my duties to call on my parishioners,” I replied, evading toremark that I had been sent for.

“H’m, I suppose it is.” He was silent for a minute or two and then, un-able to resist discussing his recent failure, he went on: “Fishy business, itlooks to me.”

“You think so?”

“If you ask me, I say ‘blackmail.’ Seems funny, when you think of whatColonel Protheroe was always supposed to be. But there, you never cantell. He wouldn’t be the first churchwarden who’d led a double life.”

Faint remembrances of Miss Marple’s remarks on the same subjectfloated through my mind.

“You really think that’s likely?”

“Well, it fits the facts, sir. Why did a smart, well- dressed lady comedown to this quiet little hole? Why did she go and see him at that funnytime of day? Why did she avoid seeing Mrs. and Miss Protheroe? Yes, it allhangs together. Awkward for her to admit—blackmail’s a punishable of-fence. But we’ll get the truth out of her. For all we know it may have avery important bearing on the case. If Colonel Protheroe had some guiltysecret in his life—something disgraceful—well, you can see for yourselfwhat a field it opens up.”

I suppose it did.

“I’ve been trying to get the butler to talk. He might have overheard someof the conversation between Colonel Protheroe and Lestrange. Butlers dosometimes. But he swears he hasn’t the least idea of what the conversationwas about. By the way, he got the sack through it. The Colonel went forhim, being angry at his having let her in. The butler retorted by giving no-tice. Says he didn’t like the place anyway and had been thinking of leavingfor some time.”

“Really.”

“So that gives us another person who had a grudge against the Colonel.”

“You don’t seriously suspect the man—what’s his name, by the way?”

“His name’s Reeves, and I don’t say I do suspect him. What I say is, younever know. I don’t like that soapy, oily manner of his.”

I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slack’s manner.

“I’m going to question the chauffeur now.”

“Perhaps, then,” I said, “you’ll give me a lift in your car. I want a shortinterview with Mrs. Protheroe.”

“What about?”

“The funeral arrangements.”

“Oh!” Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. “The inquest’s tomor-row, Saturday.”

“Just so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.”

Inspector Slack seemed to be a little ashamed of himself for his brusque-ness. He held out an olive branch in the shape of an invitation to bepresent at the interview with the chauffeur, Manning.

Manning was a nice lad, not more than twenty-five or -six years of age.

He was inclined to be awed by the Inspector.

“Now, then, my lad,” said Slack, “I want a little information from you.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the chauffeur. “Certainly, sir.”

If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been morealarmed.

“You took your master to the village yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time was that?”

“Five thirty.”

“Mrs. Protheroe went too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You went straight to the village?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?”

“No, sir.”

“What did you do when you got there?”

“The Colonel got out and told me he wouldn’t want the car again. He’dwalk home. Mrs. Protheroe had some shopping to do. The parcels wereput in the car. Then she said that was all, and I drove home.”

“Leaving her in the village?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time was that?”

“A quarter past six, sir. A quarter past exactly.”

“Where did you leave her?”

“By the church, sir.”

“Had the Colonel mentioned at all where he was going?”

“He said something about having to see the vet … something to do withone of the horses.”

“I see. And you drove straight back here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are two entrances to Old Hall, by the South Lodge and by theNorth Lodge. I take it that going to the village you would go by the SouthLodge?”

“Yes, sir, always.”

“And you came back the same way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m. I think that’s all. Ah! Here’s Miss Protheroe.”

Lettice drifted towards us.

“I want the Fiat, Manning,” she said. “Start her for me, will you?”

“Very good, miss.”

He went towards a two-seater and lifted the bonnet.

“Just a minute, Miss Protheroe,” said Slack. “It’s necessary that I shouldhave a record of everybody’s movements yesterday afternoon. No offencemeant.”

Lettice stared at him.

“I never know the time of anything,” she said.

“I understand you went out soon after lunch yesterday?”

She nodded.

“Where to, please?”

“To play tennis.”

“Who with?”

“The Hartley Napiers.”

“At Much Benham?”

“Yes.”

“And you returned?”

“I don’t know. I tell you I never know these things.”

“You returned,” I said, “about seven thirty.”

“That’s right,” said Lettice. “In the middle of the shemozzle. Anne havingfits and Griselda supporting her.”

“Thank you, miss,” said the Inspector. “That’s all I want to know.”

“How queer,” said Lettice. “It seems so uninteresting.”

She moved towards the Fiat.

The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

“A bit wanting?” he suggested.

“Not in the least,” I said. “But she likes to be thought so.”

“Well, I’m off to question the maids now.”

One cannot really like Slack, but one can admire his energy.

We parted company and I inquired of Reeves if I could see Mrs. Pro-theroe. “She is lying down, sir, at the moment.”

“Then I’d better not disturb her.”

“Perhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs. Protheroe is anxious tosee you. She was saying as much at luncheon.”

He showed me into the drawing room, switching on the electric lightssince the blinds were down.

“A very sad business all this,” I said.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was cold and respectful.

I looked at him. What feelings were at work under that impassive de-meanour. Were there things that he knew and could have told us? There isnothing so inhuman as the mask of the good servant.

“Is there anything more, sir?”

Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expres-sion?

“There’s nothing more,” I said.

I had a very short time to wait before Anne Protheroe came to me. Wediscussed and settled a few arrangements and then:

“What a wonderfully kind man Dr. Haydock is!” she exclaimed.

“Haydock is the best fellow I know.”

“He has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesn’t he?”

It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned theidea over in my mind.

“I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it,” I said at last.

“I never have, until today.”

“One’s own troubles sharpen one’s eyes sometimes,” I said.

“That’s very true.” She paused and then said:

“Mr. Clement, there’s one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my hus-band were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didn’t hearthe shot?”

“They have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.”

“But the 6:20 on the note?”

“Was possibly added by a different hand—the murderer’s.”

Her cheek paled.

“It didn’t strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?”

“How horrible!”

“None of it looked like his handwriting.”

There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegiblescrawl, not so precise as Protheroe’s writing usually was.

“You are sure they don’t still suspect Lawrence?”

“I think he is definitely cleared.”

“But, Mr. Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but Idon’t think he had any real enemies. Not—not that kind of enemy.”

I shook my head. “It’s a mystery.”

I thought wonderingly of Miss Marple’s seven suspects. Who could theybe?

After I took leave of Anne, I proceeded to put a certain plan of mine intoaction.

I returned from Old Hall by way of the private path. When I reached thestile, I retraced my steps, and choosing a place where I fancied the under-growth showed signs of being disturbed, I turned aside from the path andforced my way through the bushes. The wood was a thick one, with a gooddeal of tangled undergrowth. My progress was not very fast, and I sud-denly became aware that someone else was moving amongst the bushesnot very far from me. As I paused irresolutely, Lawrence Redding cameinto sight. He was carrying a large stone.

I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laugh-ing.

“No,” he said, “it’s not a clue, it’s a peace offering.”

“A peace offering?”

“Well, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for callingon your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing shelikes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens shemakes.”

“Quite true,” I said. “But what do you want with the old lady?”

“Just this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening MissMarple saw it. I don’t mean anything necessarily connected with the crime—that she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outré orbizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue tothe truth. Something that she wouldn’t think worthwhile mentioning tothe police.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“It’s worth trying anyhow. Clement, I’m going to get to the bottom of thisbusiness. For Anne’s sake, if nobody’s else. And I haven’t any too muchconfidence in Slack—he’s a zealous fellow, but zeal can’t really take theplace of brains.”

“I see,” I said, “that you are that favourite character of fiction, the ama-teur detective. I don’t know that they really hold their own with the pro-fessional in real life.”

He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.

“What are you doing in the wood, padre?”

I had the grace to blush.

“Just the same as I am doing, I dare swear. We’ve got the same idea,haven’t we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along thelane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third way—isthere a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushesbeing disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicaragegarden.”

“That was just my idea,” I admitted.

“I hadn’t really got down to the job, though,” continued Lawrence. “Be-cause it occurred to me that I’d like to see Miss Marple first, to make quitesure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we werein the studio.”

I shook my head.

“She was quite positive that nobody did.”

“Yes, nobody whom she would call anybody—sounds mad, but you seewhat I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or amilkman or a butcher’s boy—someone whose presence would be so nat-ural that you wouldn’t think of mentioning it.”

“You’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton,” I said, and Lawrence did notdeny it.

“But don’t you think there’s just possibly something in the idea?”

“Well, I suppose there might be,” I admitted.

Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marple’s. She was work-ing in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.

“You see,” murmured Lawrence, “she sees everybody.”

She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrence’simmense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.

“It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.”

Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marplelistened attentively.

“Yes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no onementions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was noth-ing of the kind. Nothing whatever.”

“You are sure, Miss Marple?”

“Quite sure.”

“Did you see anyone go by the path into the wood that afternoon?” Iasked. “Or come from it?”

“Oh, yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went thatway—it’s the nearest way to the barrow for them. That was a little aftertwo o’clock. And Dr. Stone returned that way—as you know, Mr. Redding,since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.”

“By the way,” I said. “That shot—the one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr.

Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.”

I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.

“Yes,” he said, frowning. “I believe I did hear some shots. Weren’t thereone or two shots?”

“I only heard one,” said Miss Marple.

“It’s only the vaguest impression in my mind,” said Lawrence. “Curse itall, I wish I could remember. If only I’d known. You see, I was so com-pletely taken up with—with—”

He paused, embarrassed.

I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple, with a touch of prudishness,changed the subject.

“Inspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard theshot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before.

I’ve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the im-pression—which is growing stronger the more I think about it—that it wasafter.”

“Then that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,” said Lawrence,with a sigh. “Not that there has ever been the slightest reason why heshould be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.”

“Ah!” said Miss Marple. “But I always find it prudent to suspect every-body just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?”

This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with herabout the shot.

“I really can’t say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should beinclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The soundwould have been deadened and—one would have noticed it less there.”

For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.

“I must ask Anne,” said Lawrence. “She may remember. By the way,there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs.

Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroeafter dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any ideawhat it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Let-tice.”

“Perhaps the Vicar knows,” said Miss Marple.

Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrangethat afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.

I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.

“What does Inspector Slack think?” asked Miss Marple.

“He’s done his best to bully the butler—but apparently the butler wasn’tcurious enough to listen at the door. So there it is—no one knows.”

“I expect someone overheard something, though, don’t you?” said MissMarple. “I mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Reddingmay find out something.”

“But Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.”

“I didn’t mean Anne Protheroe,” said Miss Marple. “I meant the womenservants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice lookingyoung man—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Redding—and one who has been un-justly suspected—oh! I’m sure they’d tell him at once.”

“I’ll go and have a try this evening,” said Lawrence with vigour. “Thanksfor the hint, Miss Marple. I’ll go after—well, after a little job the Vicar and Iare going to do.”

It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it. I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.

First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainlylooked as though someone had left the path on the right- hand side.

Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail andfound it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. Hemight have been wrong.

It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any signof broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot thatLawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the af-ternoon.

We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Againwe came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs werevery slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was morepromising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage.

Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly up to the wall. Thewall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles onthe top. If anyone had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces oftheir passage.

We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came toour ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through athick tangle of shrubs—and came face to face with Inspector Slack.

“So it’s you,” he said. “And Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you twogentlemen are doing?”

Slightly crestfallen, we explained.

“Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Not being the fools we’re usually thoughtto be, I had the same idea myself. I’ve been here over an hour. Would youlike to know something?”

“Yes,” I said meekly.

“Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didn’t come this way to do it!

There’s not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoevermurdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. There’s noother way he could have come.”

“Impossible,” I cried.

“Why impossible? Your door stands open. Anyone’s only got to walk in.

They can’t be seen from the kitchen. They know you’re safely out of theway, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at atennis party. Simple as A B C. And they don’t need to go or come throughthe village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from ityou can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way youchoose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at thatparticular minute, it’s all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbingover walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridley’shouse do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, that’s the way hecame.”

It really seemed as though he must be right.

 

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