寓所谜案26

Twenty-five

I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous letter.

Pitch soils.

However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, andstarted out.

I wondered very much what this might be that had “come to the know-ledge” of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same piece ofnews. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at fault.

I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feetgravitated there of their own accord. I was anxious to know whether In-spector Slack had returned from Old Hall.

I found that he had, and further, that Miss Cram had returned with him.

The fair Gladys was seated in the police station carrying off matters with ahigh hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to the woods.

“Just because one of these gossiping old cats had nothing better to dothan look out of her window all night you go and pitch upon me. She’sbeen mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end ofthe lane on the afternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then, indaylight, how can she possibly have recognized me by moonlight?

“Wicked it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything,they will. And me asleep in my bed as innocent as can be. You ought to beashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.”

“And supposing the landlady of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase asyours, Miss Cram?”

“If she says anything of the kind, she’s wrong. There’s no name on it.

Nearly everybody’s got a suitcase like that. As for poor Dr. Stone, accusinghim of being a common burglar! And he has a lot of letters after hisname.”

“You refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?”

“No refusing about it. You’ve made a mistake, that’s all. You and yourmeddlesome Marples. I won’t say a word more—not without my solicitorpresent. I’m going this minute—unless you’re going to arrest me.”

For answer, the Inspector rose and opened the door for her, and with atoss of the head, Miss Cram walked out.

“That’s the line she takes,” said Slack, coming back to his chair. “Abso-lute denial. And, of course, the old lady may have been mistaken. No jurywould believe you could recognize anyone from that distance on a moon-lit night. And, of course, as I say, the old lady may have made a mistake.”

“She may,” I said, “but I don’t think she did. Miss Marple is usually right.

That’s what makes her unpopular.”

The Inspector grinned.

“That’s what Hurst says. Lord, these villages!”

“What about the silver, Inspector?”

“Seemed to be perfectly in order. Of course, that meant one lot or theother must be a fake. There’s a very good man in Much Benham, an au-thority on old silver. I’ve phoned over to him and sent a car to fetch him.

We’ll soon know which is which. Either the burglary was an accomplishedfact, or else it was only planned. Doesn’t make a frightful lot of differenceeither way—I mean as far as we’re concerned. Robbery’s a small businesscompared with murder. These two aren’t concerned with the murder.

We’ll maybe get a line on him through the girl—that’s why I let her gowithout any more fuss.”

“I wondered,” I said.

“A pity about Mr. Redding. It’s not often you find a man who goes out ofhis way to oblige you.”

“I suppose not,” I said, smiling slightly.

“Women cause a lot of trouble,” moralized the Inspector.

He sighed and then went on, somewhat to my surprise: “Of course,there’s Archer.”

“Oh!” I said, “You’ve thought of him?”

“Why, naturally, sir, first thing. It didn’t need any anonymous letters toput me on his track.”

“Anonymous letters,” I said sharply. “Did you get one, then?”

“That’s nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh, yes, we wereput wise to Archer. As though the police couldn’t look out for themselves!

Archer’s been under suspicion from the first. The trouble of it is, he’s gotan alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but it’s awkward to get over.”

“What do you mean by its not amounting to anything?” I asked.

“Well, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not, as Isay, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would swear toanything. There’s no believing a word they say. We know that. But thepublic doesn’t, and the jury’s taken from the public, more’s the pity. Theyknow nothing, and ten to one believe everything that’s said in the witnessbox, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself willswear till he’s black in the face that he didn’t do it.”

“Not so obliging as Mr. Redding,” I said with a smile.

“Not he,” said the Inspector, making the remark as a plain statement offact.

“It is natural, I suppose, to cling to life,” I mused.

“You’d be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off throughthe softheartedness of the jury,” said the Inspector gloomily.

“But do you really think that Archer did it?” I asked.

It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems tohave any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or diffi-culty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to appeal to him.

“I’d like to be a bit surer,” he admitted. “A fingerprint now, or a foot-print, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Can’t risk arrest-ing him without something of that kind. He’s been seen round Mr. Red-ding’s house once or twice, but he’d say that was to speak to his mother. Adecent body, she is. No, on the whole, I’m for the lady. If I could only getdefinite proof of blackmail—but you can’t get definite proof of anything inthis crime! It’s theory, theory, theory. It’s a sad pity that there’s not asingle spinster lady living along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet she’d haveseen something if there had been.”

His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It wasabout the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.

My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching mefrom the window, for before I had time to ring she had opened the frontdoor, and clasping my hand firmly in hers, had led me over the threshold.

“So good of you to come. In here. More private.”

We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop. Miss Hart-nell shut the door and with an air of deep secrecy waved me to a seat(there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.

“I’m never one to beat about the bush,” she said in her jolly voice, thelatter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the situation. “Youknow how things go the rounds in a village like this.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I do.”

“I agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it is.

I thought it my duty to tell the police inspector that I’d called on Mrs.

Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I don’t expectto be thanked for doing my duty, I just do it. Ingratitude is what you meetwith first and last in this life. Why, only yesterday that impudent Mrs.

Baker—”

“Yes, yes,” I said, hoping to avert the usual tirade. “Very sad, very sad.

But you were saying.”

“The lower classes don’t know who are their best friends,” said MissHartnell. “I always say a word in season when I’m visiting. Not that I’mever thanked for it.”

“You were telling the Inspector about your call upon Mrs. Lestrange,” Iprompted.

“Exactly—and by the way, he didn’t thank me. Said he’d ask for inform-ation when he wanted it—not those words exactly, but that was the spirit.

There’s a different class of men in the police force nowadays.”

“Very probably,” I said. “But you were going on to say something?”

“I decided that this time I wouldn’t go near any wretched inspector.

After all, a clergyman is a gentleman—at least some are,” she added.

I gathered that the qualification was intended to include me.

“If I can help you in any way,” I began.

“It’s a matter of duty,” said Miss Hartnell, and closed her mouth with asnap. “I don’t want to have to say these things. No one likes it less. Butduty is duty.”

I waited.

“I’ve been given to understand,” went on Miss Hartnell, turning ratherred, “that Mrs. Lestrange gives out that she was at home all the time—thatshe didn’t answer the door because—well, she didn’t choose. Such airs andgraces. I only called as a matter of duty, and to be treated like that!”

“She has been ill,” I said mildly.

“Ill? Fiddlesticks. You’re too unworldly, Mr. Clement. There’s nothingthe matter with that woman. Too ill to attend the inquest indeed! Medicalcertificate from Dr. Haydock! She can wind him round her little finger,everyone knows that. Well, where was I?”

I didn’t quite know. It is difficult with Miss Hartnell to know where nar-rative ends and vituperation begins.

“Oh, about calling on her that afternoon. Well, it’s fiddlesticks to say shewas in the house. She wasn’t. I know.”

“How can you possibly know?”

Miss Hartnell’s face turned redder. In someone less truculent, her de-meanour might have been called embarrassed.

“I’d knocked and rung,” she explained. “Twice. If not three times. And itoccurred to me suddenly that the bell might be out of order.”

She was, I was glad to note, unable to look me in the face when sayingthis. The same builder builds all our houses and the bells he installs areclearly audible when standing on the mat outside the front door. BothMiss Hartnell and I knew this perfectly well, but I suppose decencies haveto be preserved.

“Yes?” I murmured.

“I didn’t want to push my card through the letter box. That would seemso rude, and whatever I am, I am never rude.”

She made this amazing statement without a tremor.

“So I thought I would just go round the house and—and tap on the win-dow pane,” she continued unblushingly. “I went all round the house andlooked in at all the windows, but there was no one in the house at all.”

I understood her perfectly. Taking advantage of the fact that the housewas empty, Miss Hartnell had given unbridled rein to her curiosity andhad gone round the house examining the garden and peering in at all thewindows to see as much as she could of the interior. She had chosen to tellher story to me, believing that I should be a more sympathetic and lenientaudience than the police. The clergy are supposed to give the benefit of thedoubt to their parishioners.

I made no comment on the situation. I merely asked a question.

“What time was this, Miss Hartnell?”

“As far as I can remember,” said Miss Hartnell, “it must have been closeon six o’clock. I went straight home afterwards, and I got in about ten pastsix, and Mrs. Protheroe came in somewhere round about the half hour,leaving Dr. Stone and Mr. Redding outside, and we talked about bulbs.

And all the time the poor Colonel lying murdered. It’s a sad world.”

“It is sometimes a rather unpleasant one,” I said.

I rose.

“And that is all you have to tell me?”

“I just thought it might be important.”

“It might,” I agreed.

And refusing to be drawn further, much to Miss Hartnell’s disappoint-ment, I took my leave.

Miss Wetherby, whom I visited next, received me in a kind of flutter.

“Dear Vicar, how truly kind. You’ve had tea? Really, you won’t? A cush-ion for your back? It is so kind of you to come round so promptly. Alwayswilling to put yourself out for others.”

There was a good deal of this before we came to the point, and eventhen it was approached with a good deal of circumlocution.

“You must understand that I heard this on the best authority.”

In St. Mary Mead the best authority is always somebody else’s servant.

“You can’t tell me who told you?”

“I promised, dear Mr. Clement. And I always think a promise should bea sacred thing.”

She looked very solemn.

“Shall we say a little bird told me? That is safe isn’t it?”

I longed to say, “It’s damned silly.” I rather wish I had. I should haveliked to observe the effect on Miss Wetherby.

“Well, this little bird told that she saw a certain lady, who shall be name-less.”

“Another kind of bird?” I inquired.

To my great surprise Miss Wetherby went off into paroxysms oflaughter and tapped me playfully on the arm saying:

“Oh, Vicar, you must not be so naughty!”

When she had recovered, she went on.

“A certain lady, and where do you think this certain lady was going? Sheturned into the Vicarage road, but before she did so, she looked up anddown the road in a most peculiar way—to see if anyone she knew werenoticing her, I imagine.”

“And the little bird—” I inquired.

“Paying a visit to the fishmonger’s—in the room over the shop.”

I know where maids go on their days out. I know there is one place theynever go if they can help—anywhere in the open air.

“And the time,” continued Miss Wetherby, leaning forward mysteri-ously, “was just before six o’clock.”

“On which day?”

Miss Wetherby gave a little scream.

“The day of the murder, of course, didn’t I say so?”

“I inferred it,” I replied. “And the name of the lady?”

“Begins with an L,” said Wetherby, nodding her head several times.

Feeling that I had got to the end of the information Miss Wetherby hadto impart, I rose to my feet.

“You won’t let the police cross-question me, will you?” said Miss Weth-erby, pathetically, as she clasped my hand in both of hers. “I do shrinkfrom publicity. And to stand up in court!”

“In special cases,” I said, “they let witnesses sit down.”

And I escaped.

There was still Mrs. Price Ridley to see. That lady put me in my place atonce.

“I will not be mixed up in any police court business,” she said grimly,after shaking my hand coldly. “You understand that, on the other hand,having come across a circumstance which needs explaining, I think itshould be brought to the notice of the authorities.”

“Does it concern Mrs. Lestrange?” I asked.

“Why should it?” demanded Mrs. Price Ridley coldly.

She had me at a disadvantage there.

“It’s a very simple matter,” she continued. “My maid, Clara, was stand-ing at the front gate, she went down there for a minute or two—she says toget a breath of fresh air. Most unlikely, I should say. Much more probablethat she was looking out for the fishmonger’s boy—if he calls himself aboy—impudent young jackanapes, thinks because he’s seventeen he canjoke with all the girls. Anyway, as I say, she was standing at the gate andshe heard a sneeze.”

“Yes,” I said, waiting for more.

“That’s all. I tell you she heard a sneeze. And don’t start telling me I’mnot so young as I once was and may have made a mistake, because it wasClara who heard it and she’s only nineteen.”

“But,” I said, “why shouldn’t she have heard a sneeze?”

Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me in obvious pity for my poorness of intel-lect.

“She heard a sneeze on the day of the murder at a time when there wasno one in your house. Doubtless the murderer was concealed in thebushes waiting his opportunity. What you have to look for is a man with acold in his head.”

“Or a sufferer from hay fever,” I suggested. “But as a matter of fact, Mrs.

Price Ridley, I think that mystery has a very easy solution. Our maid,Mary, has been suffering from a severe cold in the head. In fact, her sniff-ing has tried us very much lately. It must have been her sneeze your maidheard.”

“It was a man’s sneeze,” said Mrs. Price Ridley firmly. “And you couldn’thear your maid sneeze in your kitchen from our gate.”

“You couldn’t hear anyone sneezing in the study from your gate,” I said.

“Or at least, I very much doubt it.”

“I said the man might have been concealed in the shrubbery,” said Mrs.

Price Ridley. “Doubtless when Clara had gone in, he effected an entranceby the front door.”

“Well, of course, that’s possible,” I said.

I tried not to make my voice consciously soothing, but I must havefailed, for Mrs. Price Ridley glared at me suddenly.

“I am accustomed not to be listened to, but I might mention also that toleave a tennis racquet carelessly flung down on the grass without a presscompletely ruins it. And tennis racquets are very expensive nowadays.”

There did not seem to be rhyme or reason in this flank attack. It be-wildered me utterly.

“But perhaps you don’t agree,” said Mrs. Price Ridley.

“Oh! I do—certainly.”

“I am glad. Well, that is all I have to say. I wash my hands of the wholeaffair.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes like one weary of this world. Ithanked her and said good-bye.

On the doorstep, I ventured to ask Clara about her mistress’s statement.

“It’s quite true, sir, I heard a sneeze. And it wasn’t an ordinary sneeze—not by any means.”

Nothing about a crime is ever ordinary. The shot was not an ordinarykind of shot. The sneeze was not a usual kind of sneeze. It was, I presume,a special murderer’s sneeze. I asked the girl what time this had been, butshe was very vague, some time between a quarter and half past six shethought. Anyway, “it was before the mistress had the telephone call andwas took bad.”

I asked her if she had heard a shot of any kind. And she said the shotshad been something awful. After that, I placed very little credence in herstatements.

I was just turning in at my own gate when I decided to pay a friend avisit.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had just time for it before takingEvensong. I went down the road to Haydock’s house. He came out on thedoorstep to meet me.

I noticed afresh how worried and haggard he looked. This businessseemed to have aged him out of all knowledge.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “What’s the news?”

I told him the latest Stone development.

“A high-class thief,” he commented. “Well, that explains a lot of things.

He’d read up his subject, but he made slips from time to time to me. Pro-theroe must have caught him out once. You remember the row they had.

What do you think about the girl? Is she in it too?”

“Opinion as to that is undecided,” I said. “For my own part, I think thegirl is all right.

“She’s such a prize idiot,” I added.

“Oh! I wouldn’t say that. She’s rather shrewd, is Miss Gladys Cram. A re-markably healthy specimen. Not likely to trouble members of my profes-sion.”

I told him that I was worried about Hawes, and that I was anxious thathe should get away for a real rest and change.

Something evasive came into his manner when I said this. His answerdid not ring quite true.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose that would be the best thing. Poor chap.

Poor chap.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t—not much. But I’m sorry for a lot of people I don’t like.” He ad-ded after a minute or two: “I’m even sorry for Protheroe. Poor fellow—nobody ever liked him much. Too full of his own rectitude and too self-as-sertive. It’s an unlovable mixture. He was always the same—even as ayoung man.”

“I didn’t know you knew him then.”

“Oh, yes! When we lived in Westmorland, I had a practice not far away.

That’s a long time ago now. Nearly twenty years.”

I sighed. Twenty years ago Griselda was five years old. Time is an oddthing….

“Is that all you came to say to me, Clement?”

I looked up with a start. Haydock was watching me with keen eyes.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said.

I nodded.

I had been uncertain whether to speak or not when I came in, but now Idecided to do so. I like Haydock as well as any man I know. He is a splen-did fellow in every way. I felt that what I had to tell might be useful tohim.

I recited my interviews with Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby.

He was silent for a long time after I’d spoken.

“It’s quite true, Clement,” he said at last. “I’ve been trying to shield Mrs.

Lestrange from any inconvenience that I could. As a matter of fact, she’san old friend. But that’s not my only reason. That medical certificate ofmine isn’t the put-up job you all think it was.”

He paused, and then said gravely:

“This is between you and me, Clement. Mrs. Lestrange is doomed.”

“What?”

“She’s a dying woman. I give her a month at longest. Do you wonderthat I want to keep her from being badgered and questioned?”

He went on:

“When she turned into this road that evening it was here she came—tothis house.”

“You haven’t said so before.”

“I didn’t want to create talk. Six to seven isn’t my time for seeing pa-tients, and everyone knows that. But you can take my word for it that shewas here.”

“She wasn’t here when I came for you, though. I mean, when we dis-covered the body.”

“No,” he seemed perturbed. “She’d left—to keep an appointment.”

“In what direction was the appointment? In her own house?”

“I don’t know, Clement. On my honour, I don’t know.”

I believed him, but—

“And supposing an innocent man is hanged?” I said.

“No,” he said. “No one will be hanged for the murder of Colonel Pro-theroe. You can take my word for that.”

But that is just what I could not do. And yet the certainty in his voicewas very great.

“No one will be hanged,” he repeated.

“This man, Archer—”

He made an impatient movement.

“Hasn’t got brains enough to wipe his fingerprints off the pistol.”

“Perhaps not,” I said dubiously.

Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal Ihad found in the wood from my pocket, I held it out to him and asked himwhat it was.

“H’m,” he hesitated. “Looks like picric acid. Where did you find it?”

“That,” I replied, “is Sherlock Holmes’s secret.”

He smiled.

“What is picric acid?”

“Well, it’s an explosive.”

“Yes, I know that, but it’s got another use, hasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“It’s used medically—in solution for burns. Wonderful stuff.”

I held out my hand, and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me.

“It’s of no consequence probably,” I said. “But I found it in rather an un-usual place.”

“You won’t tell me where?”

Rather childishly, I wouldn’t.

He had his secrets. Well, I would have mine.

I was a little hurt that he had not confided in me more fully.

 

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