The Murder at the Vicarage mm-1 Read online

  "Are you going to tell my husband?"

  I said rather dryly:

  "There seems to be a general idea that a clergyman is incapable of behaving like a gentleman. That is not true."

  She threw me a grateful glance.

  "I'm so unhappy. Oh! I'm so dreadfully unhappy. I can't go on. I simply can't go on. And I don't know what to do." Her voice rose with a slightly hysterical note in it. "You don't know what my life is like. I've been miserable with Lucius from the beginning. No woman could be happy with him. I wish he were dead… It's awful, but I do… I'm desperate. I tell you, I'm desperate." She started and looked over at the window.

  "What was that? I thought I heard someone? Perhaps it's Lawrence."

  I went over to the window which I had not closed as I had thought. I stepped out and looked down the garden, but there was no one in sight. Yet I was almost convinced that I, too, had heard someone. Or perhaps it was her certainty that had convinced me.

  When I re-entered the room she was leaning forward, drooping her head down. She looked the picture of despair. She said again:

  "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."

  I came and sat down beside her. I said the things I thought it was my duty to say, and tried to say them with the necessary conviction, uneasily conscious all the time that that same morning I had given voice to the sentiment that a world without Colonel Protheroe in it would be improved for the better.

  Above all, I begged her to do nothing rash. To leave her home and her husband was a very serious step.

  I don't suppose I convinced her. I have lived long enough in the world to know that arguing with any one in love is next door to useless, but I do think my words brought to her some measure of comfort.

  When she rose to go, she thanked me, and promised to think over what I had said.

  Nevertheless, when she had gone, I felt very uneasy. I felt that hitherto I had misjudged Anne Protheroe's character. She impressed me now as a very desperate woman, the kind of woman who would stick at nothing once her emotions were aroused. And she was desperately, wildly, madly in love with Lawrence Redding, a man several years younger than herself. I didn't like it.

  Chapter IV

  I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.

  "I hope everything will be all right," Griselda called up the stairs after me. "I've thought over what you said at lunch, and I've really thought of some quite good things to eat."

  I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griselda's assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she didn't. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters which Griselda had ordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence, we were, unfortunately, not able to sample as we had nothing in the house to open them with - an omission which was discovered only when the moment for eating them arrived.

  I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.

  However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.

  Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all, one's idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.

  It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I don't think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.

  Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay - full of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram - the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griselda's age than I am. He calls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.

  I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I'm not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.

  Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then but I hadn't the heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere presence of a clergyman should have a damping effect.

  Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he manњuvred to get me into the study.

  As soon as we were alone his manner changed.

  "You've surprised our secret, sir," he said. "What are you going to do about it?"

  I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.

  "Of course," he said, when I had finished, "you're bound to say all this. You're a parson. I don't mean that in any way offensively. As a matter of fact I think you're probably right. But this isn't the usual sort of thing between Anne and me."

  I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.

  "You mean every one thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe."

  He assured me that so far - "there was nothing wrong in it." Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What was going to happen he didn't know.

  "If this were only a book," he said gloomily, "the old man would die - and a good riddance to everybody."

  I reproved him:

  "Oh! I didn't mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though I'd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There's not a soul in the world who's got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didn't do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You don't know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I'd take her away without any more ado."

  Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroe's ears - and things would be made infinitely worse for her.

  Lawrence protested.

  "Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre."

  "My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead every one knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands."

  He said easily that that was all right. Every one thought it was Lettice.

  "Has it occurred to you," I asked, "that possibly Lettice might think so herself."

  He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn't care a hang about him. He was sure of that.

  "She's a queer sort of girl," he said. "Always seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe she's really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she's doing. And there's a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anne's been a perfect angel to her always."

  I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her stepdaughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice's tone.<
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  We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.

  "Oh! dear," said Griselda, throwing herself into an arm-chair.

  "How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder - or even a burglary."

  "I don't suppose there's any one much worth burgling," said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. "Unless we stole Miss Hartnell's false teeth."

  "They do click horribly," said Griselda. "But you're wrong about there being no one worth while. There's some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II. Tazza - all kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe."

  "The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver," said Dennis. "Just the sort of thing he'd enjoy doing."

  "Oh! we'd get in first and hold him up," said Griselda. "Who's got a revolver?"

  "I've got a Mauser pistol," said Lawrence.

  "Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?"

  "Souvenir of the war," said Lawrence briefly.

  "Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone to-day," volunteered Dennis. "Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it."

  "I thought they'd quarrelled about the barrow," said Griselda.

  "Oh! they've made that up," said Dennis. "I can't think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway."

  "That man Stone puzzles me," said Lawrence. "I think he must be very absent-minded. You'd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject."

  "That's love," said Dennis. "Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor -"

  "That's enough, Dennis," I said.

  "Well," said Lawrence Redding, "I must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening."

  Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.

  Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.

  "Sorry," said Dennis.

  He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

  "What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!"

  I was a little surprised. "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "I don't know whether I ought to tell you."

  I was more and more surprised.

  "It's such an absolutely rotten thing," Dennis said again. "Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I'm damned - sorry - if I tell you! It's too absolutely rotten."

  I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

  Griselda came in at that moment.

  "Miss Wetherby's just rung up," she said. "Mrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter-past eight and hasn't come in yet. Nobody knows where she's gone.''

  "Why should they know?"

  "But it isn't to Dr. Haydock's. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her."

  "It is a mystery to me," I said, "how any one ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything."

  "And that's not all," said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. "They've found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT" - she waved an impressive forefinger - "no communicating door!"

  "That," I said, "must be very disappointing to everybody."

  At which Griselda laughed.

  Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.

  Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

  Then our organist, who is distinctly "touchy," had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.

  And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.

  I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good-humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.

  "Firmness," he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. "That's what's needed nowadays - firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I'll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We're too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You're always being asked to consider a man's wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It's all the same to me - no matter what a man is - doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel - if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I'm sure."

  "You forget," I said. "My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others - the quality of mercy."

  "Well, I'm a just man. No one can deny that."

  I did not speak, and he said sharply:

  "Why don't you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man."

  I hesitated, then I decided to speak.

  "I was thinking," I said, "that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me…"

  "Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I've always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I'll be along this evening, as I said. We'll make it a quarter-past six instead of six, if you don't mind. I've got to see a man in the village."

  "That will suit me quite well."

  He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.

  I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.

  I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.

  I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.

  I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.

  He turned abruptly at my entrance.

  "Look here, sir. I've been thinking over what you said yesterday. I've had a sleepless night thinking about it. You're right. I've got to cut and run."

  "My dear boy," I said.

  "You were right in what you said about Anne. I'll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She's - she's too good for anything else. I see I've got to go. I've made things hard enough for her as it is, Heaven help me."

  "I think you have made the only decision possible," I said. "I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end."

  I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn't know what he was talking about.

  "You'll look after Anne? She needs a friend."

  "You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power."

  "Thank you, sir." He wrung my hand. "You're a good s
ort, Padre. I shall see her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go to-morrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I'm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement's portrait."

  "Don't worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you."

  When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.

  I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half-past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.

  I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.

  I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word With Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six-thirty or soon after.

  Chapter V

  It was nearer seven than half-past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.

  I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately

  "Hullo," I said, "have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I've got to see Protheroe about some accounts - but I dare say we shan't be long."

  "Protheroe," he said. He began to laugh. "Protheroe? You're going to see Protheroe? Oh! you'll see Protheroe all right. Oh! my God - yes."

  I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.

  "No," he almost cried out. "I've got to get away - to think. I've got to think. I must think."

  He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.