Murder at the Vicarage Page 12

  I suppose it did.

  “I’ve been trying to get the butler to talk. He might have overheard some of the conversation between Colonel Protheroe and Lestrange. Butlers do sometimes. But he swears he hasn’t the least idea of what the conversation was about. By the way, he got the sack through it. The Colonel went for him, being angry at his having let her in. The butler retorted by giving notice. Says he didn’t like the place anyway and had been thinking of leaving for some time.”

  “Really.”

  “So that gives us another person who had a grudge against the Colonel.”

  “You don’t seriously suspect the man—what’s his name, by the way?”

  “His name’s Reeves, and I don’t say I do suspect him. What I say is, you never know. I don’t like that soapy, oily manner of his.”

  I wonder what Reeves would say of Inspector Slack’s manner.

  “I’m going to question the chauffeur now.”

  “Perhaps, then,” I said, “you’ll give me a lift in your car. I want a short interview with Mrs. Protheroe.”

  “What about?”

  “The funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh!” Inspector Slack was slightly taken aback. “The inquest’s tomorrow, Saturday.”

  “Just so. The funeral will probably be arranged for Tuesday.”

  Inspector Slack seemed to be a little ashamed of himself for his brusqueness. He held out an olive branch in the shape of an invitation to be present at the interview with the chauffeur, Manning.

  Manning was a nice lad, not more than twenty-five or -six years of age. He was inclined to be awed by the Inspector.

  “Now, then, my lad,” said Slack, “I want a little information from you.”

  “Yes, sir,” stammered the chauffeur. “Certainly, sir.”

  If he had committed the murder himself he could not have been more alarmed.

  “You took your master to the village yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Mrs. Protheroe went too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You went straight to the village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t stop anywhere on the way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did you do when you got there?”

  “The Colonel got out and told me he wouldn’t want the car again. He’d walk home. Mrs. Protheroe had some shopping to do. The parcels were put in the car. Then she said that was all, and I drove home.”

  “Leaving her in the village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A quarter past six, sir. A quarter past exactly.”

  “Where did you leave her?”

  “By the church, sir.”

  “Had the Colonel mentioned at all where he was going?”

  “He said something about having to see the vet … something to do with one of the horses.”

  “I see. And you drove straight back here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There are two entrances to Old Hall, by the South Lodge and by the North Lodge. I take it that going to the village you would go by the South Lodge?”

  “Yes, sir, always.”

  “And you came back the same way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “H’m. I think that’s all. Ah! Here’s Miss Protheroe.”

  Lettice drifted towards us.

  “I want the Fiat, Manning,” she said. “Start her for me, will you?”

  “Very good, miss.”

  He went towards a two-seater and lifted the bonnet.

  “Just a minute, Miss Protheroe,” said Slack. “It’s necessary that I should have a record of everybody’s movements yesterday afternoon. No offence meant.”

  Lettice stared at him.

  “I never know the time of anything,” she said.

  “I understand you went out soon after lunch yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  “Where to, please?”

  “To play tennis.”

  “Who with?”

  “The Hartley Napiers.”

  “At Much Benham?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you returned?”

  “I don’t know. I tell you I never know these things.”

  “You returned,” I said, “about seven thirty.”

  “That’s right,” said Lettice. “In the middle of the shemozzle. Anne having fits and Griselda supporting her.”

  “Thank you, miss,” said the Inspector. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “How queer,” said Lettice. “It seems so uninteresting.”

  She moved towards the Fiat.

  The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

  “A bit wanting?” he suggested.

  “Not in the least,” I said. “But she likes to be thought so.”

  “Well, I’m off to question the maids now.”

  One cannot really like Slack, but one can admire his energy.

  We parted company and I inquired of Reeves if I could see Mrs. Protheroe. “She is lying down, sir, at the moment.”

  “Then I’d better not disturb her.”

  “Perhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs. Protheroe is anxious to see you. She was saying as much at luncheon.”

  He showed me into the drawing room, switching on the electric lights since the blinds were down.

  “A very sad business all this,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was cold and respectful.

  I looked at him. What feelings were at work under that impassive demeanour. Were there things that he knew and could have told us? There is nothing so inhuman as the mask of the good servant.

  “Is there anything more, sir?”

  Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expression?

  “There’s nothing more,” I said.

  I had a very short time to wait before Anne Protheroe came to me. We discussed and settled a few arrangements and then:

  “What a wonderfully kind man Dr. Haydock is!” she exclaimed.

  “Haydock is the best fellow I know.”

  “He has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesn’t he?”

  It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned the idea over in my mind.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it,” I said at last.

  “I never have, until today.”

  “One’s own troubles sharpen one’s eyes sometimes,” I said.

  “That’s very true.” She paused and then said:

  “Mr. Clement, there’s one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my husband were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didn’t hear the shot?”

  “They have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.”

  “But the 6:20 on the note?”

  “Was possibly added by a different hand—the murderer’s.”

  Her cheek paled.

  “It didn’t strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?”

  “How horrible!”

  “None of it looked like his handwriting.”

  There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegible scrawl, not so precise as Protheroe’s writing usually was.

  “You are sure they don’t still suspect Lawrence?”

  “I think he is definitely cleared.”

  “But, Mr. Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but I don’t think he had any real enemies. Not—not that kind of enemy.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a mystery.”

  I thought wonderingly of Miss Marple’s seven suspects. Who could they be?

  After I took leave of Anne, I proceeded to put a certain plan of mine into action.

  I returned from Old Hall by way of the private path. When I reached the stile, I retraced my steps, and choosing a place where I fancied the undergrowth showed signs of b
eing disturbed, I turned aside from the path and forced my way through the bushes. The wood was a thick one, with a good deal of tangled undergrowth. My progress was not very fast, and I suddenly became aware that someone else was moving amongst the bushes not very far from me. As I paused irresolutely, Lawrence Redding came into sight. He was carrying a large stone.

  I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

  “No,” he said, “it’s not a clue, it’s a peace offering.”

  “A peace offering?”

  “Well, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for calling on your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing she likes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens she makes.”

  “Quite true,” I said. “But what do you want with the old lady?”

  “Just this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I don’t mean anything necessarily connected with the crime—that she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outré or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldn’t think worthwhile mentioning to the police.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “It’s worth trying anyhow. Clement, I’m going to get to the bottom of this business. For Anne’s sake, if nobody’s else. And I haven’t any too much confidence in Slack—he’s a zealous fellow, but zeal can’t really take the place of brains.”

  “I see,” I said, “that you are that favourite character of fiction, the amateur detective. I don’t know that they really hold their own with the professional in real life.”

  He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.

  “What are you doing in the wood, padre?”

  I had the grace to blush.

  “Just the same as I am doing, I dare swear. We’ve got the same idea, haven’t we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along the lane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third way—is there a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushes being disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicarage garden.”

  “That was just my idea,” I admitted.

  “I hadn’t really got down to the job, though,” continued Lawrence. “Because it occurred to me that I’d like to see Miss Marple first, to make quite sure that no one did pass along the lane yesterday evening whilst we were in the studio.”

  I shook my head.

  “She was quite positive that nobody did.”

  “Yes, nobody whom she would call anybody—sounds mad, but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcher’s boy—someone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldn’t think of mentioning it.”

  “You’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton,” I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.

  “But don’t you think there’s just possibly something in the idea?”

  “Well, I suppose there might be,” I admitted.

  Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marple’s. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.

  “You see,” murmured Lawrence, “she sees everybody.”

  She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrence’s immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.

  “It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.”

  Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.

  “Yes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.”

  “You are sure, Miss Marple?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Did you see anyone go by the path into the wood that afternoon?” I asked. “Or come from it?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went that way—it’s the nearest way to the barrow for them. That was a little after two o’clock. And Dr. Stone returned that way—as you know, Mr. Redding, since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.”

  “By the way,” I said. “That shot—the one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.”

  I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.

  “Yes,” he said, frowning. “I believe I did hear some shots. Weren’t there one or two shots?”

  “I only heard one,” said Miss Marple.

  “It’s only the vaguest impression in my mind,” said Lawrence. “Curse it all, I wish I could remember. If only I’d known. You see, I was so completely taken up with—with—”

  He paused, embarrassed.

  I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple, with a touch of prudishness, changed the subject.

  “Inspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard the shot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before. I’ve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the impression—which is growing stronger the more I think about it—that it was after.”

  “Then that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,” said Lawrence, with a sigh. “Not that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.”

  “Ah!” said Miss Marple. “But I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?”

  This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.

  “I really can’t say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened and—one would have noticed it less there.”

  For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.

  “I must ask Anne,” said Lawrence. “She may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.”

  “Perhaps the Vicar knows,” said Miss Marple.

  Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.

  I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.

  “What does Inspector Slack think?” asked Miss Marple.

  “He’s done his best to bully the butler—but apparently the butler wasn’t curious enough to listen at the door. So there it is—no one knows.”

  “I expect someone overheard something, though, don’t you?” said Miss Marple. “I mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Redding may find out something.”

  “But Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.”

  “I didn’t mean Anne Protheroe,” said Miss Marple. “I meant the women servants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice looking young man—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Redding—and one who has been unjustly suspected—oh! I’m sure they’d tell him at once.”

  “I’ll go and have a try this evening,” said Lawrence with vigour. “Thanks for the hint, Miss Marple. I’ll go after—well, after a little job the Vicar and I are going to do.”

  It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it. I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.

  First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainly looked as though someone had left the path on the right-hand side. Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail and found it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. He might have been wrong.

  It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any sign of broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot that Lawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the a
fternoon.

  We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Again we came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs were very slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was more promising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage. Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly up to the wall. The wall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles on the top. If anyone had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces of their passage.

  We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came to our ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through a thick tangle of shrubs—and came face to face with Inspector Slack.

  “So it’s you,” he said. “And Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you two gentlemen are doing?”

  Slightly crestfallen, we explained.

  “Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Not being the fools we’re usually thought to be, I had the same idea myself. I’ve been here over an hour. Would you like to know something?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  “Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didn’t come this way to do it! There’s not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. There’s no other way he could have come.”

  “Impossible,” I cried.

  “Why impossible? Your door stands open. Anyone’s only got to walk in. They can’t be seen from the kitchen. They know you’re safely out of the way, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at a tennis party. Simple as A B C. And they don’t need to go or come through the village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from it you can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way you choose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at that particular minute, it’s all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbing over walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridley’s house do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, that’s the way he came.”

  It really seemed as though he must be right.

  Seventeen

  Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the clock.