寓所谜案28

Twenty-seven

Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most naturalthing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss Marple andfetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken up with ourpreoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten anybody existed inthe world except ourselves.

I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not evennow go over and join them, when the doorbell rang.

I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box, and presumingthat this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.

As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter hastilyinto my pocket and opened the front door.

It was Colonel Melchett.

“Hallo, Clement. I’m on my way home from town in the car. Thought I’djust look in and see if you could give me a drink.”

“Delighted,” I said. “Come into the study.”

He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me intothe study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett wasstanding in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his closelycropped moustache.

“I’ve got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing you’veever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going downhere? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?”

“They’re not doing so badly,” I said. “One of them, at all events, thinksshe’s got there.”

“Our friend, Miss Marple, eh?”

“Our friend, Miss Marple.”

“Women like that always think they know everything,” said ColonelMelchett.

He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.

“It’s probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,” I said. “ButI suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murdererleft by the front door, there’s a chance the boy may have seen him.”

“Slack questioned him right enough,” said Melchett. “But the boy says hedidn’t meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldn’t beexactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He wouldhave taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at theVicarage, at Haydock’s, and at Mrs. Price Ridley’s. Easy enough to dodgehim.”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it would be.”

“On the other hand,” went on Melchett, “if by any chance that rascalArcher did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, Idoubt very much whether he’d let on. Archer is a cousin of his.”

“Do you seriously suspect Archer?”

“Well, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly.

Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasn’t Protheroe’s strongpoint.”

“No,” I said. “He was a very ruthless man.”

“What I say is,” said Melchett, “Live and let live. Of course, the law’s thelaw, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the doubt. That’s whatProtheroe never did.”

“He prided himself on it,” I said.

There was a pause, and then I asked:

“What is this ‘astounding bit of news’ you promised me?”

“Well, it is astounding. You know that unfinished letter that Protheroewas writing when he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“We got an expert on it—to say whether the 6:20 was added by a differ-ent hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroe’s handwriting. Anddo you know the verdict? That letter was never written by Protheroe at all.”

“You mean a forgery?”

“It’s a forgery. The 6:20 they think is written in a different hand again—but they’re not sure about that. The heading is in a different ink, but theletter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it.”

“Are they certain?”

“Well, they’re as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expertis! Oh! But they’re sure enough.”

“Amazing,” I said. Then a memory assailed me.

“Why,” I said, “I remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasn’t likeher husband’s handwriting at all, and I took no notice.”

“Really?”

“I thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If thereseemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written thatnote.”

We looked at each other.

“It’s curious,” I said slowly. “Miss Marple was saying this evening thatthat note was all wrong.”

“Confound the woman, she couldn’t know more about it if she had com-mitted the murder herself.”

At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psycho-logy about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind ofsinister significance.

I went over and took up the receiver.

“This is the Vicarage,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”

A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:

“I want to confess,” it said. “My God, I want to confess.”

“Hallo,” I said, “hallo. Look here you’ve cut me off. What number wasthat?”

A languid voice said it didn’t know. It added that it was sorry I had beentroubled.

I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.

“You once said,” I remarked, “that you would go mad if anyone else ac-cused themselves of the crime.”

“What about it?”

“That was someone who wanted to confess … And the Exchange has cutus off.”

Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.

“I’ll speak to them.”

“Do,” I said. “You may have some effect. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going out.

I’ve a fancy I recognized that voice.”