寓所谜案27

Twenty-six

I was in a strange mood when I mounted the pulpit that night.

The church was unusually full. I cannot believe that it was the prospectof Hawes preaching which had attracted so many. Hawes’s sermons aredull and dogmatic. And if the news had got round that I was preaching in-stead, that would not have attracted them either. For my sermons are dulland scholarly. Neither, I am afraid, can I attribute it to devotion.

Everybody had come, I concluded, to see who else was there, and pos-sibly exchange a little gossip in the church porch afterwards.

Haydock was in church, which is unusual, and also Lawrence Redding.

And to my surprise, beside Lawrence I saw the white strained face ofHawes. Anne Protheroe was there, but she usually attends Evensong onSundays, though I had hardly thought she would today. I was far moresurprised to see Lettice. Churchgoing was compulsory on Sunday morning—Colonel Protheroe was adamant on that point, but I had never seen Let-tice at evening service before.

Gladys Cram was there, looking rather blatantly young and healthyagainst a background of wizened spinsters, and I fancied that a dim figureat the end of the church who had slipped in late, was Mrs. Lestrange.

I need hardly say that Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby,and Miss Marple were there in full force. All the village people were there,with hardly a single exception. I don’t know when we have had such acrowded congregation.

Crowds are queer things. There was a magnetic atmosphere that night,and the first person to feel its influence was myself.

As a rule, I prepare my sermons beforehand. I am careful and conscien-tious over them, but no one is better aware than myself of their deficien-cies.

Tonight I was of necessity preaching extempore, and as I looked down onthe sea of upturned faces, a sudden madness entered my brain. I ceased tobe in any sense a Minister of God. I became an actor. I had an audience be-fore me and I wanted to move that audience—and more, I felt the powerto move it.

I am not proud of what I did that night. I am an utter disbeliever in theemotional Revivalist spirit. Yet that night I acted the part of a raving, rant-ing evangelist.

I gave out my text slowly.

I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

I repeated it twice, and I heard my own voice, a resonant, ringing voiceunlike the voice of the everyday Leonard Clement.

I saw Griselda from her front pew look up in surprise and Dennis followher example.

I held my breath for a moment or two, and then I let myself rip.

The congregation in that church were in a state of pent-up emotion, ripeto be played upon. I played upon them. I exhorted sinners to repentance. Ilashed myself into a kind of emotional frenzy. Again and again I threw outa denouncing hand and reiterated the phrase.

“I am speaking to you.…”

And each time, from different parts of the church, a kind of sighing gaspwent up.

Mass emotion is a strange and terrible thing.

I finished up with those beautiful and poignant words — perhaps themost poignant words in the whole Bible:

“This night thy soul shall be required of thee….”

It was a strange, brief possession. When I got back to the Vicarage I wasmy usual faded, indeterminate self. I found Griselda rather pale. Sheslipped her arm through mine.

“Len,” she said, “you were rather terrible tonight. I—I didn’t like it. I’venever heard you preach like that before.”

“I don’t suppose you ever will again,” I said, sinking down wearily onthe sofa. I was tired.

“What made you do it?”

“A sudden madness came over me.”

“Oh! It—it wasn’t something special?”

“What do you mean—something special?”

“I wondered—that was all. You’re very unexpected, Len. I never feel Ireally know you.”

We sat down to cold supper, Mary being out.

“There’s a note for you in the hall,” said Griselda. “Get it, will you, Den-nis?”

Dennis, who had been very silent, obeyed.

I took it and groaned. Across the top left-hand corner was written: Byhand—Urgent.

“This,” I said, “must be from Miss Marple. There’s no one else left.”

I had been perfectly correct in my assumption.

“Dear Mr. Clement,—I should so much like to have a littlechat with you about one or two things that have occurredto me. I feel we should all try and help in elucidating thissad mystery. I will come over about half past nine if I may,and tap on your study window. Perhaps dear Griseldawould be so very kind as to run over here and cheer up mynephew. And Mr. Dennis too, of course, if he cares to come.

If I do not hear, I will expect them and will come over my-self at the time I have stated.

Yours very sincerely,

Jane Marple.”

I handed the note to Griselda.

“Oh, we’ll go!” she said cheerfully. “A glass or two of homemade liqueuris just what one needs on Sunday evening. I think it’s Mary’s blancmangethat is so frightfully depressing. It’s like something out of a mortuary.”

Dennis seemed less charmed at the prospect.

“It’s all very well for you,” he grumbled. “You can talk all this highbrowstuff about art and books. I always feel a perfect fool sitting and listeningto you.”

“That’s good for you,” said Griselda serenely. “It puts you in your place.

Anyway, I don’t think Mr. Raymond West is so frightfully clever as he pre-tends to be.”

“Very few of us are,” I said.

I wondered very much what exactly it was that Miss Marple wished totalk over. Of all the ladies in my congregation, I considered her by far theshrewdest. Not only does she see and hear practically everything that goeson, but she draws amazingly neat and apposite deductions from the factsthat come under her notice.

If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of MissMarple that I should be afraid.

What Griselda called the Nephew Amusing Party started off at a littleafter nine, and whilst I was waiting for Miss Marple to arrive I amusedmyself by drawing up a kind of schedule of the facts connected with thecrime. I arranged them so far as possible in chronological order. I am nota punctual person, but I am a neat one, and I like things jotted down in amethodical fashion.

At half past nine punctually, there was a little tap on the window, and Irose and admitted Miss Marple.

She had a very fine Shetland shawl thrown over her head and shouldersand was looking rather old and frail. She came in full of little fluttering re-marks.

“So good of you to let me come—and so good of dear Griselda—Ray-mond admires her so much—the perfect Greuze he always calls her … No,I won’t have a footstool.”

I deposited the Shetland shawl on a chair and returned to take a chairfacing my guest. We looked at each other, and a little deprecating smilebroke out on her face.

“I feel that you must be wondering why—why I am so interested in allthis. You may possibly think it’s very unwomanly. No—please—I shouldlike to explain if I may.”

She paused a moment, a pink colour suffusing her cheeks.

“You see,” she began at last, “living alone, as I do, in a rather out-of-the-way part of the world, one has to have a hobby. There is, of course, wool-work, and Guides, and Welfare, and sketching, but my hobby is—and al-ways has been—Human Nature. So varied—and so very fascinating. And,of course, in a small village, with nothing to distract one, one has suchample opportunity for becoming what I might call proficient in one’sstudy. One begins to class people, quite definitely, just as though they werebirds or flowers, group so-and-so, genus this, species that. Sometimes, ofcourse, one makes mistakes, but less and less as time goes on. And then,too, one tests oneself. One takes a little problem—for instance, the gill ofpicked shrimps that amused dear Griselda so much—a quite unimportantmystery but absolutely incomprehensible unless one solves it right. Andthen there was that matter of the changed cough drops, and the butcher’swife’s umbrella—the last absolutely meaningless unless on the assump-tion that the greengrocer was not behaving at all nicely with the chemist’swife—which, of course, turned out to be the case. It is so fascinating, youknow, to apply one’s judgment and find that one is right.”

“You usually are, I believe,” I said smiling.

“That, I am afraid, is what has made me a little conceited,” confessedMiss Marple. “But I have always wondered whether, if some day a reallybig mystery came along, I should be able to do the same thing. I mean—just solve it correctly. Logically, it ought to be exactly the same thing. Afterall, a tiny working model of a torpedo is just the same as a real torpedo.”

“You mean it’s all a question of relativity,” I said slowly. “It should be—logically, I admit. But I don’t know whether it really is.”

“Surely it must be the same,” said Miss Marple. “The—what one used tocall the factors at school—are the same. There’s money, and the mutual at-traction people of an—er—opposite sex—and there’s queerness of course—so many people are a little queer, aren’t they?—in fact, most people arewhen you know them well. And normal people do such astonishing thingssometimes, and abnormal people are sometimes so very sane and ordin-ary. In fact, the only way is to compare people with other people you haveknown or come across. You’d be surprised if you knew how very few dis-tinct types there are in all.”

“You frighten me,” I said. “I feel I’m being put under the microscope.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of saying any of this to Colonel Melchett—such an autocratic man, isn’t he?—and poor Inspector Slack—well, he’s ex-actly like the young lady in the boot shop who wants to sell you patentleather because she’s got it in your size, and doesn’t take any notice of thefact that you want brown calf.”

That, really, is a very good description of Slack.

“But you, Mr. Clement, know, I’m sure, quite as much about the crime asInspector Slack. I thought, if we could work together—”

“I wonder,” I said. “I think each one of us in his secret heart fancies him-self as Sherlock Holmes.”

Then I told her of the three summonses I had received that afternoon. Itold her of Anne’s discovery of the picture with the slashed face. I also toldher of Miss Cram’s attitude at the police station, and I described Haydock’sidentification of the crystal I had picked up.

“Having found that myself,” I finished up, “I should like it to be import-ant. But it’s probably got nothing to do with the case.”

“I have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the librarylately,” said Miss Marple, “hoping to find them helpful.”

“Was there anything in them about picric acid?”

“I’m afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which aman was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as anointment.”

“But as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesn’t seem to enter intothe question,” I said.

Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.

“I’ve tried,” I said, “to recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly as pos-sible.”

MY SCHEDULE

Thursday, 21st inst.

12:30 p.m.—Colonel Protheroe al-

ters his appointment from six to

six fifteen. Overheard by half vil-

lage very probably.

12:45 — Pistol last seen in its

proper place. (But this is doubtful,

as Mrs. Archer had previously

said she could not remember.)

5:30 (approx.)—Colonel and Mrs.

Protheroe leave Old Hall for vil-

lage in car.

5:30 Fake call put through to me

from the North Lodge, Old Hall.

6:15 (or a minute or two earlier)—

Colonel Protheroe arrives at

Vicarage. Is shown into study by

Mary.

6:20—Mrs. Protheroe comes along

back lane and across garden to

study window. Colonel Protheroe

not visible.

6:29 — Call from Lawrence Red-

ding’s cottage put through to Mrs.

Price Ridley (according to Ex-

change).

6:30–6:35—Shot heard. (Accepting

telephone call time as correct.)

Lawrence Redding, Anne Pro-

theroe and Dr. Stone’s evidence

seem to point to its being earlier,

but Mrs. P.R. probably right.

6:45—Lawrence Redding arrives

Vicarage and finds the body.

6:48—I meet Lawrence Redding.

6:49—Body discovered by me.

6:55—Haydock examines body.

NOTE. —The only two people who

have no kind of alibi for 6:30–6:35

are Miss Cram and Mrs.

Lestrange. Miss Cram says she

was at the barrow, but no con-

firmation. It seems reasonable,

however, to dismiss her from case

as there seems nothing to connect

her with it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr.

Haydock’s house some time after

six to keep an appointment.

Where was the appointment, and

with whom? It could hardly have

been with Colonel Protheroe, as

he expected to be engaged with

me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange

was near the spot at the time the

crime was committed, but it

seems doubtful what motive she

could have had for murdering

him. She did not gain by his

death, and the Inspector’s theory

of blackmail I cannot accept. Mrs.

Lestrange is not that kind of wo-

man. Also it seems unlikely that

she should have got hold of

Lawrence Redding’s pistol.

“Very clear,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head in approval. “Veryclear indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda.”

“You agree with what I have written?” I asked.

“Oh, yes—you have put it all beautifully.”

I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.

“Miss Marple,” I said. “Who do you suspect? You once said that therewere seven people.”

“Quite that, I should think,” said Miss Marple absently. “I expect everyone of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they do.”

She didn’t ask me who I suspected.

“The point is,” she said, “that one must provide an explanation foreverything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If youhave a theory that fits every fact—well, then, it must be the right one. Butthat’s extremely difficult. If it wasn’t for that note—”

“The note?” I said, surprised.

“Yes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along. It’swrong, somehow.”

“Surely,” I said, “that is explained now. It was written at six thirty fiveand another hand—the murderer’s—put the misleading 6:20 at the top. Ithink that is clearly established.”

“But even then,” said Miss Marple, “it’s all wrong.”

“But why?”

“Listen.” Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. “Mrs. Protheroe passed mygarden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and shelooked in and she didn’t see Colonel Protheroe.”

“Because he was writing at the desk,” I said.

“And that’s what’s all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreedthat he wouldn’t sit down to say he couldn’t wait any longer until afterhalf past six—so, why was he sitting at the writing table then?”

“I never thought of that,” I said slowly.

“Let us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes tothe window and she thinks the room is empty—she must have thought so,because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to meetMr. Redding. It wouldn’t have been safe. The room must have been abso-lutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three alternat-ives, doesn’t it?”

“You mean—”

“Well, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was deadalready—but I don’t think that’s the most likely one. To begin with he’donly been there about five minutes and she or I would have heard theshot, and secondly, the same difficulty remains about his being at the writ-ing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was sitting at thewriting table writing a note, but in that case it must have been a differentnote altogether. It can’t have been to say he couldn’t wait. And the third—”

“Yes?” I said.

“Well, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that theroom was actually empty.”

“You mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again andcame back later?”

“Yes.”

“But why should he have done that?”

Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.

“That would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,”

I said.

“One so often has to do that—about everything. Don’t you think so?”

I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three alternat-ives that Miss Marple had suggested.

With a slight sigh the old lady rose to her feet.

“I must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little chat—though we haven’t got very far, have we?”

“To tell you the truth,” I said, as I fetched her shawl, “the whole thingseems to me a bewildering maze.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearlyeverything. That is, if you admit one coincidence—and I think one coincid-ence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely.”

“Do you really think that? About the theory, I mean?” I asked, looking ather.

“I admit that there is one flaw in my theory—one fact that I can’t getover. Oh! If only that note had been something quite different—”

She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and ab-sentmindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed-lookingplant that stood in a stand.

“You know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poorthing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I suppose it isshe who attends to it?”

“As much,” I said, “as she attends to anything.”

“A little raw at present,” suggested Miss Marple.

“Yes,” I said. “And Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to sack her. Heridea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with us. How-ever, Mary herself gave us notice the other day.”

“Indeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both.”

“I haven’t noticed it,” I said. “But, as a matter of fact, it was Lettice Pro-theroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in rather a tem-peramental state and found Lettice here and—well, they had words.”

“Oh!” said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the windowwhen she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passedover her face.

“Oh, dear!” she muttered to herself. “I have been stupid. So that was it.

Perfectly possible all the time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She turned a worried face upon me.

“Nothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home andthink things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been extremelystupid—almost incredibly so.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said gallantly.

I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.

“Can you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?” Iasked.

“I would rather not—just at present. You see, there is still a possibilitythat I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are at my gardengate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any further.”

“Is the note still a stumbling block?” I asked, as she passed through thegate and latched it behind her.

She looked at me abstractedly.

“The note? Oh! Of course that wasn’t the real note. I never thought itwas. Goodnight, Mr. Clement.”

She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.

I didn’t know what to think.

 

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