寓所谜案31

Thirty

We stared at her. I really think that for a moment or two we really be-lieved she was out of her mind. The accusation seemed so utterly prepos-terous.

Colonel Melchett was the first to speak. He spoke kindly and with a kindof pitying tolerance.

“That is absurd, Miss Marple,” he said. “Young Redding has been com-pletely cleared.”

“Naturally,” said Miss Marple. “He saw to that.”

“On the contrary,” said Colonel Melchett dryly. “He did his best to gethimself accused of the murder.”

“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “He took us all in that way—myself as much asanyone else. You will remember, dear Mr. Clement, that I was quite takenaback when I heard Mr. Redding had confessed to the crime. It upset allmy ideas and made me think him innocent—when up to then I had feltconvinced that he was guilty.”

“Then it was Lawrence Redding you suspected?”

“I know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I neverfind that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the obvious that istrue. Much as I have always liked Mrs. Protheroe, I could not avoid com-ing to the conclusion that she was completely under Mr. Redding’s thumband would do anything he told her, and, of course, he is not the kind ofyoung man who would dream of running away with a penniless woman.

From his point of view it was necessary that Colonel Protheroe should beremoved—and so he removed him. One of those charming young menwho have no moral sense.”

Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now hebroke out.

“Absolute nonsense—the whole thing! Redding’s time is fully accountedfor up to 6:50 and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldn’t have beenshot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or do yousuggest that Haydock is deliberately lying—the Lord knows why?”

“I think Dr. Haydock’s evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very up-right man. And, of course, it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot ColonelProtheroe—not Mr. Redding.”

Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushedback the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver agentle old-maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements inthe most natural way in the world.

“I have not thought it right to speak until now. One’s own belief—evenso strong as to amount to knowledge—is not the same as proof. And unlessone has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I was saying to dearMr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance it with any real conviction.

And my own explanation was not quite complete—it lacked just one thing—but suddenly, just as I was leaving Mr. Clement’s study, I noticed thepalm in the pot by the window—and—well, there the whole thing was!

Clear as daylight!”

“Mad—quite mad,” murmured Melchett to me.

But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle lady-like voice.

“I was very sorry to believe what I did—very sorry. Because I liked themboth. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when firsthe and then she both confessed in the most foolish way—well, I was morerelieved than I could say. I had been wrong. And I began to think of otherpeople who had a possible motive for wishing Colonel Protheroe out of theway.”

“The seven suspects!” I murmured.

She smiled at me.

“Yes, indeed. There was that man Archer—not likely, but primed withdrink (so inflaming) you never know. And, of course, there was yourMary. She’s been walking out with Archer a long time, and she’s a queer-tempered girl. Motive and opportunity—why, she was alone in the house!

Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Redding’s housefor either of those two. And then, of course, there was Lettice—wantingfreedom and money to do as she liked. I’ve known many cases where themost beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scruple—though, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them.”

I winced.

“And then there was the tennis racquet,” continued Miss Marple.

“The tennis racquet?”

“Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley’s Clara saw lying on the grass by theVicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier fromhis tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible andso very unbalanced. Whatever the motive—for Lettice’s sake or for yours,it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes andyou—not both of you naturally—but alternatively, as the lawyers say.”

“Me?” I exclaimed in lively astonishment.

“Well, yes. I do apologize—and indeed I never really thought—but therewas the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr.

Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywherehinting that you were the person in fault—principally because you objec-ted so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myselfwas always convinced it was Mr. Hawes—he reminded me so much of thatunfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldn’t be abso-lutely sure—”

“Human nature being what it is,” I ended grimly.

“Exactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda.”

“But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it,” interrupted Melchett. “Shereturned by the 6:50 train.”

“That’s what she said,” retorted Miss Marple. “One should never go bywhat people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarterpast seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followedthat she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; butperhaps you know that?”

She looked at me inquiringly.

Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonym-ous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail thatGriselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding’s cottage by the backwindow at twenty past six on the fatal day.

I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had forone moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms—a pastintrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming toProtheroe’s ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the facts—andGriselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I say—anightmare only—but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful ap-pearance of reality.

I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very prob-ably she had. Few things are hidden from her.

She handed me back the note with a little nod.

“That’s been all over the village,” she said. “And it did look rather suspi-cious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest thatthe pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.”

She paused a minute and then went on.

“But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say—and be-lieve it my duty—is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you.

If you don’t believe it—well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, mywish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes hislife.”

Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a differentnote. It was less apologetic, more decided.

“That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon thecrime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Red-ding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him thepistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. Whenthe Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he hadmade up his mind to go away. At five thirty, Lawrence Redding tele-phoned from the North Lodge to the Vicar, adopting a woman’s voice (youremember what a good amateur actor he was).

“Mrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. And—a very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way)—Mrs. Protheroe took no handbag with her. Really a most unusual thing fora woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my garden and stopsand speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of noticing that she has noweapon with her and also that she is quite her normal self. They realized,you see, that I am a noticing kind of person. She disappears round thecorner of the house to the study window. The poor Colonel is sitting at thedesk writing his letter to you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pis-tol from the bowl where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him andshoots him through the head, throws down the pistol and is out again likea flash, and going down the garden to the studio. Nearly anyone wouldswear that there couldn’t have been time!”

“But the shot?” objected the Colonel. “You didn’t hear the shot?”

“There is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I gatherfrom detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze that the maid,Clara, heard might have actually been the shot? But no matter. Mrs. Pro-theroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in together—and, hu-man nature being what it is, I’m afraid they realize that I shan’t leave thegarden till they come out again!”

I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her hu-morous perception of her own weakness.

“When they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. Andthere, in reality, they made a mistake. Because if they had really saidgood-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked verydifferent. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply dare not ap-pear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are careful toprovide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe. Finally Mr. Red-ding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he dares. He probably sawyou on the footpath from far away and was able to time matters nicely. Hepicks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves the forged letter with the timeon it written in a different ink and apparently in a different handwriting.

When the forgery is discovered it will look like a clumsy attempt to in-criminate Anne Protheroe.

“But when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written by Col-onel Protheroe—something quite unexpected. And being a very intelligentyoung man, and seeing that this letter may come in very useful to him, hetakes it away with him. He alters the hands of the clock to the same timeas the letter—knowing that it is always kept a quarter of an hour fast. Thesame idea—attempt to throw suspicion on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves,meeting you outside the gate, and acting the part of someone nearly dis-traught. As I say, he is really most intelligent. What would a murdererwho had committed a crime try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So thatis just what Mr. Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, butmarches into the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ri-diculous self-accusation which takes everybody in.”

There was something fascinating in Miss Marple’s resumé of the case.

She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that in this way and in noother could the crime have been committed.

“What about the shot heard in the wood?” I asked. “Was that the coin-cidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?”

“Oh, dear, no!” Miss Marple shook her head briskly. “That wasn’t a coin-cidence—very far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a shot shouldbe heard—otherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might have continued.

How Mr. Redding arranged it, I don’t quite know. But I understand thatpicric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it, and you will remember,dear Vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying a large stone just in the partof the wood where you picked up that crystal later. Gentlemen are soclever at arranging things—the stone suspended above the crystals andthen a time fuse—or do I mean a slow match? Something that would takeabout twenty minutes to burn through—so that the explosion would comeabout 6:30 when he and Mrs. Protheroe had come out of the studio andwere in full view. A very safe device because what would there be to findafterwards—only a big stone! But even that he tried to remove—when youcame upon him.”

“I believe you are right,” I exclaimed, remembering the start of surpriseLawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed natural enoughat the time, but now….

Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her headshrewdly.

“Yes,” she said, “it must have been a very nasty shock for him to comeacross you just then. But he turned it off very well—pretending he wasbringing it to me for my rock gardens. Only—” Miss Marple became sud-denly very emphatic. “It was the wrong sort of stone for my rock gardens!

And that put me on the right track!”

All this time Colonel Melchett had sat like a man in a trance. Now heshowed signs of coming to. He snorted once or twice, blew his nose in abewildered fashion, and said:

“Upon my word! Well, upon my word!”

Beyond that, he did not commit himself. I think that he, like myself, wasimpressed with the logical certainty of Miss Marple’s conclusions. But forthe moment he was not willing to admit it.

Instead, he stretched out a hand, picked up the crumpled letter andbarked out:

“All very well. But how do you account for this fellow Hawes! Why, heactually rang up and confessed.”

“Yes, that was what was so providential. The Vicar’s sermon, doubtless.

You know, dear Mr. Clement, you really preached a most remarkable ser-mon. It must have affected Mr. Hawes deeply. He could bear it no longer,and felt he must confess — about the misappropriations of the churchfunds.”

“What?”

“Yes—and that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I hopeand trust it is saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the matter, Mr. Red-ding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect he hid it in some safeplace) and waited till he found out for certain to whom it referred. Hesoon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes. I understand he came backhere with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a long time with him. I suspectthat he then substituted a cachet of his own for one of Mr. Hawes’s, andslipped this letter in the pocket of Mr. Hawes’s dressing gown. The pooryoung man would swallow the fatal cachet in all innocence — after hisdeath his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyonewould jump to the conclusion that he had shot Colonel Protheroe andtaken his own life out of remorse. I rather fancy Mr. Hawes must havefound that letter tonight just after taking the fatal cachet. In his disorderedstate, it must have seemed like something supernatural, and, coming ontop of the Vicar’s sermon, it must have impelled him to confess the wholething.”

“Upon my word,” said Colonel Melchett. “Upon my word! Most ex-traordinary! I—I—don’t believe a word of it.”

He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. Itmust have sounded so in his own ears, for he went on:

“And can you explain the other telephone call—the one from Mr. Red-ding’s cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?”

“Ah!” said Miss Marple. “That is what I call the coincidence. DearGriselda sent that call—she and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy. Theyhad heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about the Vicar,and they thought of this (perhaps rather childish) way of silencing her.

The coincidence lies in the fact that the call should have been put throughat exactly the same time as the fake shot from the wood. It led one to be-lieve that the two must be connected.”

I suddenly remembered how everyone who spoke of that shot had de-scribed it as “different” from the usual shot. They had been right. Yet howhard to explain just in what way the “difference” of the shot consisted.

Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.

“Your solution is a very plausible one, Miss Marple,” he said. “But youwill allow me to point out that there is not a shadow of proof.”

“I know,” said Miss Marple. “But you believe it to be true, don’t you?”

There was a pause, then the Colonel said almost reluctantly:

“Yes, I do. Dash it all, it’s the only way the thing could have happened.

But there’s no proof—not an atom.”

Miss Marple coughed.

“That is why I thought perhaps under the circumstances—”

“Yes?”

“A little trap might be permissable.”

 

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