寓所谜案25

Twenty-four

I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study. Hewas pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he star-ted as though he had been shot.

“You must excuse me,” he said, wiping his forehead. “My nerves are allto pieces lately.”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “you positively must get away for a change. Weshall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do.”

“I can’t desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do.”

“It’s not a case of desertion. You are ill. I’m sure Haydock would agreewith me.”

“Haydock—Haydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant countrypractitioner.”

“I think you’re unfair to him. He has always been considered a very ableman in his profession.”

“Oh! Perhaps. Yes, I dare say. But I don’t like him. However, that’s notwhat I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough topreach tonight instead of me. I—I really do not feel equal to it.”

“Why, certainly. I will take the service for you.”

“No, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the idea ofgetting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at me….”

He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.

It is clear to me that there is something very wrong indeed the matterwith Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his eyes andsaid quickly:

“There is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these headaches —these awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me have a glassof water.”

“Certainly,” I said.

I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a profitlessform of exercise in our house.

I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocketa small cardboard box, and opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule,which he swallowed with the aid of the water.

“A headache powder,” he explained.

I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted todrugs. It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.

“You don’t take too many, I hope,” I said.

“No—oh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really won-derful. They bring instant relief.”

Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.

He stood up.

“Then you will preach tonight? It’s very good of you, sir.”

“Not at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home andrest. No, I won’t have any argument. Not another word.”

He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the win-dow:

“You—have been up at Old Hall today, haven’t you, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me—but were you sent for?”

I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I — I just thought some new development might havearisen and that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you.”

I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawes’s curiosity.

“She wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two othersmall matters with me,” I said.

“Oh! That was all. I see.”

I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:

“Mr. Redding came to see me last night. I—I can’t imagine why.”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“He—he just said he thought he’d look me up. Said it was a bit lonely inthe evenings. He’s never done such a thing before.”

“Well, he’s supposed to be pleasant company,” I said, smiling.

“What does he want to come and see me for? I don’t like it.” His voicerose shrilly. “He spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean? Whatidea do you think he has got into his head?”

“Why should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?” I asked.

“I don’t like it,” repeated Hawes obstinately. “I’ve never gone againsthim in any way. I never suggested that he was guilty—even when he ac-cused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If I’ve had suspi-cions of anybody it’s been of Archer—never of him. Archer is a totally dif-ferent proposition—a godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” I said. “After all, we reallyknow very little about the man.”

“A poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.”

“Do you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?” I asked curiously.

Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed itseveral times lately.

“Don’t you think yourself, sir, that it’s the only possible solution?”

“As far as we know,” I said, “there’s no evidence of any kind againsthim.”

“His threats,” said Hawes eagerly. “You forget about his threats.”

I am sick and tired of hearing about Archer’s threats. As far as I canmake out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.

“He was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primedhimself with drink and then shot him.”

“That’s pure supposition.”

“But you will admit that it’s perfectly probable?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Possible, then?”

“Possible, yes.”

Hawes glanced at me sideways.

“Why don’t you think it’s probable?”

“Because,” I said, “a man like Archer wouldn’t think of shooting a manwith a pistol. It’s the wrong weapon.”

Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasn’t the ob-jection he had expected.

“Do you really think the objection is feasible?” he asked doubtingly.

“To my mind it is a complete stumbling block to Archer’s having com-mitted the crime,” I said.

In face of my positive assertion, Hawes said no more. He thanked meagain and left.

I had gone as far as the front door with him, and on the hall table I sawfour notes. They had certain characteristics in common. The handwritingwas almost unmistakably feminine, they all bore the words, “By hand, Ur-gent,” and the only difference I could see was that one was noticeablydirtier than the rest.

Their similarity gave me a curious feeling of seeing—not double butquadruple.

Mary came out of the kitchen and caught me staring at them.

“Come by hand since lunchtime,” she volunteered. “All but one. I foundthat in the box.”

I nodded, gathered them up and took them into the study.

The first one ran thus:

“Dear Mr. Clement,—Something has come to my know-ledge which I feel you ought to know. It concerns the deathof poor Colonel Protheroe. I should much appreciate youradvice on the matter—whether to go to the police or not.

Since my dear husband’s death, I have such a shrinkingfrom every kind of publicity. Perhaps you could run in andsee me for a few minutes this afternoon.

Yours sincerely,

Martha Price Ridley.”

I opened the second:

“Dear Mr. Clement,—I am so troubled—so excited in mymind—to know what I ought to do. Something has come tomy ears that I feel may be important. I have such a horrorof being mixed up with the police in any way. I am so dis-turbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you,dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve mydoubts and perplexities for me in the wonderful way youalways do?

Forgive my troubling you,

Yours very sincerely,

Caroline Wetherby.”

The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand.

“Dear Mr. Clement, — Something most important hascome to my ears. I feel you should be the first to knowabout it. Will you call in and see me this afternoon sometime? I will wait in for you.”

This militant epistle was signed “Amanda Hartnell.”

I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubledwith very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, themeanest and cruellest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It pur-ported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things inclined meto disbelieve that assumption.

“Dear Vicar,—I think you ought to know what is GoingOn. Your lady has been seen coming out of Mr. Redding’scottage in a surreptitious manner. You know wot i mean.

The two are Carrying On together. i think you ought toknow.

A Friend.”

I made a faint exclamation of disgust and crumpling up the paper tossedit into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room.

“What’s that you’re throwing down so contemptuously?” she asked.

“Filth,” I said.

Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda,however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up thecrumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her.

She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back to me,turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn.

Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking outinto the garden.

“Len,” she said, without turning round.

“Yes, my dear.”

“I’d like to tell you something. Yes, don’t stop me. I want to, please.

When—when Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had onlyknown him slightly before. That wasn’t true. I—had known him ratherwell. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him. I thinkmost people are with Lawrence. I was—well, absolutely silly about him atone time. I don’t mean I wrote him compromising letters or anything idi-otic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him once.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“Oh! Because! I don’t know exactly except that—well, you’re foolish insome ways. Just because you’re so much older than I am, you think that I—well, that I’m likely to like other people. I thought you’d be tiresome,perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends.”

“You’re very clever at concealing things,” I said, remembering what shehad told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous way shehad talked.

“Yes, I’ve always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it.”

Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure to it.

“But it’s quite true what I said. I didn’t know about Anne, and Iwondered why Lawrence was so different, not—well, really not noticingme. I’m not used to it.”

There was a pause.

“You do understand, Len?” said Griselda anxiously.

“Yes,” I said, “I understand.”

But did I?

 

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