The Murder at the Vicarage (Agatha Christie Mysteries Collection) Page 11

  “She doesn’t talk to most people, but she does talk to me. She’s awfully worried about the whole thing, and she thinks something ought to be done about it.”

  “She will find,” I said, “that Inspector Slack shares her opinion. He is going up to Old Hall this afternoon, and will probably make the life of everybody there quite unbearable to them in his efforts to get at the truth.”

  “What do you think is the truth, Len?” asked my wife suddenly.

  “It’s hard to say, my dear. I can’t say that at the moment I’ve any idea at all.”

  “Did you say that Inspector Slack was going to trace that telephone call—the one that took you to the Abbotts?’”

  “Yes.”

  “But can he do it? Isn’t it a very difficult thing to do?”

  “I should not imagine so. The Exchange will have a record of the calls.”

  “Oh!” My wife relapsed into thought.

  “Uncle Len,” said my nephew, “why were you so ratty with me this morning for joking about your wishing Colonel Protheroe to be murdered?”

  “Because,” I said, “there is a time for everything. Inspector Slack has no sense of humour. He took your words quite seriously, will probably cross-examine Mary, and will get out a warrant for my arrest.”

  “Doesn’t he know when a fellow’s ragging?”

  “No,” I said, “he does not. He has attained his present position through hard work and zealous attention to duty. That has left him no time for the minor recreations of life.”

  “Do you like him, Uncle Len?”

  “No,” I said, “I do not. From the first moment I saw him I disliked him intensely. But I have no doubt that he is a highly successful man in his profession.”

  “You think he’ll find out who shot old Protheroe?”

  “If he doesn’t,” I said, “it will not be for the want of trying.”

  Mary appeared and said:

  “Mr. Hawes wants to see you. I’ve put him in the drawing room, and here’s a note. Waiting for an answer. Verbal will do.” I tore open the note and read it.

  “Dear Mr. Clement,—I should be so very grateful if you could come and see me this afternoon as early as possible. I am in great trouble and would like your advice.

  Sincerely yours,

  Estelle Lestrange.”

  “Say I will come round in about half an hour,” I said to Mary. Then I went into the drawing room to see Hawes.

  Fifteen

  Hawes’s appearance distressed me very much. His hands were shaking and his face kept twitching nervously. In my opinion he should have been in bed, and I told him so. He insisted that he was perfectly well.

  “I assure you, sir, I never felt better. Never in my life.”

  This was so obviously wide of the truth that I hardly knew how to answer. I have a certain admiration for a man who will not give in to illness, but Hawes was carrying the thing rather too far.

  “I called to tell you how sorry I was—that such a thing should happen in the Vicarage.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s not very pleasant.”

  “It’s terrible—quite terrible. It seems they haven’t arrested Mr. Redding after all?”

  “No. That was a mistake. He made—er—rather a foolish statement.”

  “And the police are now quite convinced that he is innocent?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Why is that, may I ask? Is it—I mean, do they suspect anyone else?”

  I should never have suspected that Hawes would take such a keen interest in the details of a murder case. Perhaps it is because it happened in the Vicarage. He appeared as eager as a reporter.

  “I don’t know that I am completely in Inspector Slack’s confidence. As far as I know, he does not suspect anyone in particular. He is at present engaged in making inquiries.”

  “Yes. Yes—of course. But who can one imagine doing such a dreadful thing?”

  I shook my head.

  “Colonel Protheroe was not a popular man, I know that. But murder! For murder—one would need a very strong motive.”

  “So I should imagine,” I said.

  “Who could have such a motive? Have the police any idea?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “He might have made enemies, you know. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that he was the kind of man to have enemies. He had a reputation on the Bench for being very severe.”

  “I suppose he had.”

  “Why, don’t you remember, sir? He was telling you yesterday morning about having been threatened by that man Archer.”

  “Now I come to think of it, so he did,” I said. “Of course, I remember. You were quite near us at the time.”

  “Yes, I overheard what he was saying. Almost impossible to help it with Colonel Protheroe. He had such a very loud voice, hadn’t he? I remember being impressed by your own words. That when his time came, he might have justice meted out to him instead of mercy.”

  “Did I say that?” I asked, frowning. My remembrance of my own words was slightly different.

  “You said it very impressively, sir. I was struck by your words. Justice is a terrible thing. And to think the poor man was struck down shortly afterwards. It’s almost as though you had a premonition.”

  “I had nothing of the sort,” I said shortly. I rather dislike Hawes’s tendency to mysticism. There is a touch of the visionary about him.

  “Have you told the police about this man Archer, sir?”

  “I know nothing about him.”

  “I mean, have you repeated to them what Colonel Protheroe said—about Archer having threatened him?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “I have not.”

  “But you are going to do so?”

  I was silent. I dislike hounding a man down who has already got the forces of law and order against him. I held no brief for Archer. He is an inveterate poacher—one of those cheerful ne’er-do-weels that are to be found in any parish. Whatever he may have said in the heat of anger when he was sentenced I had no definite knowledge that he felt the same when he came out of prison.

  “You heard the conversation,” I said at last. “If you feel it your duty to go to the police with it, you must do so.”

  “It would come better from you, sir.”

  “Perhaps—but to tell the truth—well, I’ve no fancy for doing it. I might be helping to put the rope round the neck of an innocent man.”

  “But if he shot Colonel Protheroe—”

  “Oh, if! There’s no evidence of any kind that he did.”

  “His threats.”

  “Strictly speaking, the threats were not his, but Colonel Protheroe’s. Colonel Protheroe was threatening to show Archer what vengeance was worth next time he caught him.”

  “I don’t understand your attitude, sir.”

  “Don’t you,” I said wearily. “You’re a young man. You’re zealous in the cause of right. When you get to my age, you’ll find that you like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

  “It’s not—I mean—”

  He paused, and I looked at him in surprise.

  “You haven’t any—any idea of your own—as to the identity of the murderer, I mean?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  Hawes persisted. “Or as to the—motive?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “I? No, indeed. I just wondered. If Colonel Protheroe had—had confided in you in any way—mentioned anything….”

  “His confidences, such as they were, were heard by the whole village street yesterday morning,” I said dryly.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. And you don’t think—about Archer?”

  “The police will know all about Archer soon enough,” I said. “If I’d heard him threaten Colonel Protheroe myself, that would be a different matter. But you may be sure that if he actually has threatened him, half the people in the village will have heard him, and the news will get to the police all right. You, of course, must do as you like abou
t the matter.”

  But Hawes seemed curiously unwilling to do anything himself.

  The man’s whole attitude was nervous and queer. I recalled what Haydock had said about his illness. There, I supposed, lay the explanation.

  He took his leave unwillingly, as though he had more to say, and didn’t know how to say it.

  Before he left, I arranged with him to take the service for the Mothers’ Union, followed by the meeting of District Visitors. I had several projects of my own for the afternoon.

  Dismissing Hawes and his troubles from my mind I started off for Mrs. Lestrange.

  On the table in the hall lay the Guardian and the Church Times unopened.

  As I walked, I remembered that Mrs. Lestrange had had an interview with Colonel Protheroe the night before his death. It was possible that something had transpired in that interview which would throw light upon the problem of his murder.

  I was shown straight into the little drawing room, and Mrs. Lestrange rose to meet me. I was struck anew by the marvellous atmosphere that this woman could create. She wore a dress of some dead black material that showed off the extraordinary fairness of her skin. There was something curiously dead about her face. Only the eyes were burningly alive. There was a watchful look in them today. Otherwise she showed no signs of animation.

  “It was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement,” she said, as she shook hands. “I wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong.”

  “As I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you.”

  “Yes, you said that. And you said it as though you meant it. Very few people, Mr. Clement, in this world have ever sincerely wished to help me.”

  “I can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange.”

  “It is true. Most people—most men, at any rate, are out for their own hand.” There was a bitterness in her voice.

  I did not answer, and she went on:

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  I obeyed, and she took a chair facing me. She hesitated a moment and then began to speak very slowly and thoughtfully, seeming to weigh each word as she uttered it.

  “I am in a very peculiar position, Mr. Clement, and I want to ask your advice. That is, I want to ask your advice as to what I should do next. What is past is past and cannot be undone. You understand?”

  Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face:

  “Oh! Please, ma’am, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please.”

  There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrange’s face did not change. Only her eyes very slowly closed and opened again. She seemed to swallow once or twice, then she said in exactly the same clear, calm voice: “Show him in, Hilda.”

  I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand.

  “If you do not mind—I should be much obliged if you would stay.”

  I resumed my seat.

  “Certainly, if you wish it,” I murmured, as Slack entered with a brisk regulation tread.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” he began.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  At this moment, he caught sight of me and scowled. There is no doubt about it, Slack does not like me.

  “You have no objection to the Vicar’s presence, I hope?”

  I suppose that Slack could not very well say he had.

  “No-o,” he said grudgingly. “Though, perhaps, it might be better—”

  Mrs. Lestrange paid no attention to the hint.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” she asked.

  “It’s this way, madam. Murder of Colonel Protheroe. I’m in charge of the case and making inquiries.”

  Mrs. Lestrange nodded.

  “Just as a matter of form, I’m asking every one just where they were yesterday evening between the hours of 6 and 7 p.m. Just as a matter of form, you understand.”

  “You want to know where I was yesterday evening between six and seven?”

  “If you please, madam.”

  “Let me see.” She reflected a moment. “I was here. In this house.”

  “Oh!” I saw the Inspector’s eyes flash. “And your maid—you have only one maid, I think—can confirm that statement?”

  “No, it was Hilda’s afternoon out.”

  “I see.”

  “So, unfortunately, you will have to take my word for it,” said Mrs. Lestrange pleasantly.

  “You seriously declare that you were at home all the afternoon?”

  “You said between six and seven, Inspector. I was out for a walk early in the afternoon. I returned some time before five o’clock.”

  “Then if a lady—Miss Hartnell, for instance—were to declare that she came here about six o’clock, rang the bell, but could make no one hear and was compelled to go away again—you’d say she was mistaken, eh?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Lestrange shook her head.

  “But—”

  “If your maid is in, she can say not at home. If one is alone and does not happen to want to see callers—well, the only thing to do is to let them ring.”

  Inspector Slack looked slightly baffled.

  “Elderly women bore me dreadfully,” said Mrs. Lestrange. “And Miss Hartnell is particularly boring. She must have rung at least half a dozen times before she went away.”

  She smiled sweetly at Inspector Slack.

  The Inspector shifted his ground.

  “Then if anyone were to say they’d seen you out and about then—”

  “Oh! but they didn’t, did they?” She was quick to sense his weak point. “No one saw me out, because I was in, you see.”

  “Quite so, madam.”

  The Inspector hitched his chair a little nearer.

  “Now I understand, Mrs. Lestrange, that you paid a visit to Colonel Protheroe at Old Hall the night before his death.”

  Mrs. Lestrange said calmly: “That is so.”

  “Can you indicate to me the nature of that interview?”

  “It concerned a private matter, Inspector.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask you tell me the nature of that private matter.”

  “I shall not tell you anything of the kind. I will only assure you that nothing which was said at that interview could possibly have any bearing upon the crime.”

  “I don’t think you are the best judge of that.”

  “At any rate, you will have to take my word for it, Inspector.”

  “In fact, I have to take your word about everything.”

  “It does seem rather like it,” she agreed, still with the same smiling calm.

  Inspector Slack grew very red.

  “This is a serious matter, Mrs. Lestrange. I want the truth—” He banged his fist down on a table. “And I mean to get it.”

  Mrs. Lestrange said nothing at all.

  “Don’t you see, madam, that you’re putting yourself in a very fishy position?”

  Still Mrs. Lestrange said nothing.

  “You’ll be required to give evidence at the inquest.”

  “Yes.”

  Just the monosyllable. Unemphatic, uninterested. The Inspector altered his tactics.

  “You were acquainted with Colonel Protheroe?”

  “Yes, I was acquainted with him.”

  “Well acquainted?”

  There was a pause before she said:

  “I had not seen him for several years.”

  “You were acquainted with Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll excuse me, but it was a very unusual time to make a call.”

  “Not from my point of view.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I wanted to see Colonel Protheroe alone. I did not want to see Mrs. Protheroe or Miss Protheroe. I considered this the best way of accomplishing my object.”

  “Why didn’t you want to see Mrs. or Miss Protheroe?”

  “That, Inspector, is my business.”


  “Then you refuse to say more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Inspector Slack rose.

  “You’ll be putting yourself in a nasty position, madam, if you’re not careful. All this looks bad—it looks very bad.”

  She laughed. I could have told Inspector Slack that this was not the kind of woman who is easily frightened.

  “Well,” he said, extricating himself with dignity, “don’t say I haven’t warned you, that’s all. Good afternoon, madam, and mind you we’re going to get at the truth.”

  He departed. Mrs. Lestrange rose and held out her hand.

  “I am going to send you away—yes, it is better so. You see, it is too late for advice now. I have chosen my part.”

  She repeated in a rather forlorn voice:

  “I have chosen my part.”

  Sixteen

  As I went out I ran into Haydock on the doorstep. He glanced sharply after Slack, who was just passing through the gate, and demanded: “Has he been questioning her?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been civil, I hope?”

  Civility, to my mind, is an art which Inspector Slack has never learnt, but I presumed that according to his own lights, civil he had been, and anyway, I didn’t want to upset Haydock any further. He was looking worried and upset as it was. So I said he had been quite civil.

  Haydock nodded and passed on into the house, and I went on down the village street, where I soon caught up to the inspector. I fancy that he was walking slowly on purpose. Much as he dislikes me, he is not the man to let dislike stand in the way of acquiring any useful information.

  “Do you know anything about the lady?” he asked me point blank.

  I said I knew nothing whatever.

  “She’s never said anything about why she came here to live?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you go and see her?”

  “It is one of my duties to call on my parishioners,” I replied, evading to remark that I had been sent for.

  “H’m, I suppose it is.” He was silent for a minute or two and then, unable to resist discussing his recent failure, he went on: “Fishy business, it looks to me.”

  “You think so?”

  “If you ask me, I say ‘blackmail.’ Seems funny, when you think of what Colonel Protheroe was always supposed to be. But there, you never can tell. He wouldn’t be the first churchwarden who’d led a double life.”