The Murder at the Vicarage (Agatha Christie Mysteries Collection) Page 6

“He says they quarrelled and he lost his temper and shot him.”

  “Hoping for manslaughter, eh?” The doctor shook his head. “That story doesn’t hold water. He stole up behind him as he was writing and shot him through the head. Precious little ‘quarrel’ about that.”

  “Anyway, there wouldn’t have been time for a quarrel,” I said, remembering Miss Marple’s words. “To creep up, shoot him, alter the clock hands back to 6:20, and leave again would have taken him all his time. I shall never forget his face when I met him outside the gate, or the way he said, ‘You want to see Protheroe—oh, you’ll see him all right!’ That in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes before.”

  Haydock stared at me.

  “What do you mean—what had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?”

  “A few minutes before I got to the house.”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “Impossible. Plumb impossible. He’d been dead much longer than that.”

  “But, my dear man,” cried Colonel Melchett, “you said yourself that half an hour was only an approximate estimate.”

  “Half an hour, thirty-five minutes, twenty-five minutes, twenty minutes—possibly, but less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.”

  We stared at each other. Haydock’s face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I wondered at the change in him.

  “But, look here, Haydock.” The Colonel found his voice. “If Redding admits shooting him at a quarter to seven—”

  Haydock sprang to his feet.

  “I tell you it’s impossible,” he roared. “If Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you I’m a doctor, and I know. The blood had begun to congeal.”

  “If Redding is lying,” began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.

  “We’d better go down to the police station and see him,” he said.

  Eight

  We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:

  “You know I don’t like the look of this. I don’t like it. There’s something here we don’t understand.”

  He looked thoroughly worried and upset.

  Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face with Lawrence Redding.

  He looked pale and strained but quite composed—marvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.

  “Look here, Redding,” he said, “I understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here. You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. I’m not reading it over to you, but that’s the gist of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to ask a few questions. You’ve already been told that you needn’t answer them unless you choose. Your solicitor—”

  Lawrence interrupted.

  “I’ve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.”

  “Ah! well—” Melchett snorted. “How did you happen to have a pistol with you?”

  Lawrence hesitated. “It was in my pocket.”

  “You took it with you to the Vicarage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I always take it.”

  He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.

  “Why did you put the clock back?”

  “The clock?” He seemed puzzled.

  “Yes, the hands pointed to 6:22.”

  A look of fear sprang up in his face.

  “Oh! that—yes. I—I altered it.”

  Haydock spoke suddenly.

  “Where did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?”

  “In the study at the Vicarage.”

  “I mean in what part of the body?”

  “Oh!—I—through the head, I think. Yes, through the head.”

  “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Since you know, I can’t see why it is necessary to ask me.”

  It was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.

  “For the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.”

  I tore it open and read:

  “Please—please—come to me. I don’t know what to do. It is all too awful. I want to tell someone. Please come immediately, and bring anyone you like with you. Anne Protheroe.”

  I gave Melchett a meaning glance. He took the hint. We all went out together. Glancing over my shoulder, I had a glimpse of Lawrence Redding’s face. His eyes were riveted on the paper in my hand, and I have hardly ever seen such a terrible look of anguish and despair in any human being’s face.

  I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying:

  “I’m a desperate woman,” and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Redding’s heroic self-accusation. Melchett was speaking to Slack.

  “Have you got any line on Redding’s movements earlier in the day? There’s some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?”

  He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroe’s letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.

  “Is this what you were hinting at this morning?”

  “Yes. I was not sure then if it was my duty to speak. I am quite sure now.” And I told him of what I had seen that night in the studio.

  The Colonel had a few words with the Inspector and then we set off for Old Hall. Dr. Haydock came with us.

  A very correct butler opened the door, with just the right amount of gloom in his bearing.

  “Good morning,” said Melchett. “Will you ask Mrs. Protheroe’s maid to tell her we are here and would like to see her, and then return here and answer a few questions.”

  The butler hurried away and presently returned with the news that he had despatched the message.

  “Now let’s hear something about yesterday,” said Colonel Melchett. “Your master was in to lunch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in his usual spirits?”

  “As far as I could see, yes, sir.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “After luncheon Mrs. Protheroe went to lie down and the Colonel went to his study. Miss Lettice went out to a tennis party in the two-seater. Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe had tea at four thirty, in the drawing room. The car was ordered for five-thirty to take them to the village. Immediately after they had left Mr. Clement rang up”—he bowed to me—“I told him they had started.”

  “H’m,” said Colonel Melchett. “When was Mr. Redding last here?”

  “On Tuesday afternoon, sir.”

  “I understand that there was a disagreement between them?”

  “I believe so, sir. The Colonel gave me orders that Mr. Redding was not to be admitted in future.”

  “Did you overhear the quarrel at all?” asked Colonel Melchett bluntly.

  “Colonel Protheroe, sir, had a very loud voice, especially when it was raised in anger. I was unable to help overhearing a few words here and there.”

  “Enough to tell you the cause of the dispute?”

  “I understood, sir, that it had to do with a portrait Mr. Redding had been painting—a portrait of Miss Lettice.”

  Melchett grunted.

  “Did you see Mr. Redding when he left?”

  “Yes, sir, I let him out.”

  “Did he seem angry?”

  “No, sir; if I may say so, he seemed rather amused.”

  “Ah! He didn’t come to the house yesterday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anyone else come?”

  “Not yesterday, sir.”

  “Well, the day before?”

  “Mr. Dennis Clement came in the afternoon. And Dr. Stone was here for
some time. And there was a lady in the evening.”

  “A lady?” Melchett was surprised. “Who was she?”

  The butler couldn’t remember her name. It was a lady he had not seen before. Yes, she had given her name, and when he told her that the family were at dinner, she had said that she would wait. So he had shown her into the little morning room.

  She had asked for Colonel Protheroe, not Mrs. Protheroe. He had told the Colonel and the Colonel had gone to the morning room directly dinner was over.

  How long had the lady stayed? He thought about half an hour. The Colonel himself had let her out. Ah! Yes, he remembered her name now. The lady had been a Mrs. Lestrange.

  This was a surprise.

  “Curious,” said Melchett. “Really very curious.”

  But we pursued the matter no further, for at that moment a message came that Mrs. Protheroe would see us.

  Anne was in bed. Her face was pale and her eyes very bright. There was a look on her face that puzzled me—a kind of grim determination. She spoke to me.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” she said. “I see you’ve understood what I meant by bringing anyone you liked with you.” She paused.

  “It’s best to get it over quickly, isn’t it?” she said. She gave a queer, half-pathetic little smile. “I suppose you’re the person I ought to say it to, Colonel Melchett. You see, it was I who killed my husband.”

  Colonel Melchett said gently:

  “My dear Mrs. Protheroe—”

  “Oh! It’s quite true. I suppose I’ve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. I’ve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.”

  She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “That’s all. I suppose you’ll arrest me and take me away. I’ll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.”

  “Are you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?”

  Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.

  “I know. Silly boy. He’s very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of him—but very silly.”

  “He knew that it was you who had committed the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know?”

  She hesitated.

  “Did you tell him?”

  Still she hesitated. Then at last she seemed to make up her mind.

  “Yes—I told him….”

  She twitched her shoulders with a movement of irritation.

  “Can’t you go away now? I’ve told you. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Where did you get the pistol, Mrs. Protheroe?”

  “The pistol! Oh, it was my husband’s. I got it out of the drawer of his dressing table.”

  “I see. And you took it with you to the Vicarage?”

  “Yes. I knew he would be there—”

  “What time was this?”

  “It must have been after six—quarter—twenty past—something like that.”

  “You took the pistol meaning to shoot your husband?”

  “No—I—meant it for myself.”

  “I see. But you went to the Vicarage?”

  “Yes. I went along to the window. There were no voices. I looked in. I saw my husband. Something came over me—and I fired.”

  “And then?”

  “Then? Oh, then I went away.”

  “And told Mr. Redding what you had done?”

  Again I noticed the hesitation in her voice before she said “Yes.”

  “Did anybody see you entering or leaving the Vicarage?”

  “No—at least, yes. Old Miss Marple. I talked to her for a few minutes. She was in her garden.”

  She moved restlessly on the pillows.

  “Isn’t that enough? I’ve told you. Why do you want to go on bothering me?”

  Dr. Haydock moved to her side and felt her pulse.

  He beckoned to Melchett.

  “I’ll stay with her,” he said in a whisper, “whilst you make the necessary arrangements. She oughtn’t to be left. Might do herself a mischief.”

  Melchett nodded.

  We left the room and descended the stairs. I saw a thin, cadaverous-looking man come out of the adjoining room and on impulse I remounted the stairs.

  “Are you Colonel Protheroe’s valet?”

  The man looked surprised. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know whether your late master kept a pistol anywhere?”

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Not in one of the drawers of his dressing table? Think, man.”

  The valet shook his head decisively.

  “I’m quite sure he didn’t, sir. I’d have seen it if so. Bound to.”

  I hurried down the stairs after the others.

  Mrs. Protheroe had lied about the pistol.

  Why?

  Nine

  After leaving a message at the police station, the Chief Constable announced his intention of paying a visit to Miss Marple.

  “You’d better come with me, Vicar,” he said. “I don’t want to give a member of your flock hysterics. So lend the weight of your soothing presence.”

  I smiled. For all her fragile appearance, Miss Marple is capable of holding her own with any policeman or Chief Constable in existence.

  “What’s she like?” asked the Colonel, as we rang the bell. “Anything she says to be depended upon or otherwise?”

  I considered the matter.

  “I think she is quite dependable,” I said cautiously. “That is, in so far as she is talking of what she has actually seen. Beyond that, of course, when you get on to what she thinks—well, that is another matter. She has a powerful imagination and systematically thinks the worst of everyone.”

  “The typical elderly spinster, in fact,” said Melchett, with a laugh. “Well, I ought to know the breed by now. Gad, the tea parties down here!”

  We were admitted by a very diminutive maid and shown into a small drawing room.

  “A bit crowded,” said Colonel Melchett, looking round. “But plenty of good stuff. A lady’s room, eh, Clement?”

  I agreed, and at that moment the door opened and Miss Marple made her appearance.

  “Very sorry to bother you, Miss Marple,” said the Colonel, when I had introduced him, putting on his bluff military manner which he had an idea was attractive to elderly ladies. “Got to do my duty, you know.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Miss Marple. “I quite understand. Won’t you sit down? And might I offer you a little glass of cherry brandy? My own making. A recipe of my grandmother’s.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Marple. Very kind of you. But I think I won’t. Nothing till lunch time, that’s my motto. Now, I want to talk to you about this sad business—very sad business indeed. Upset us all, I’m sure. Well, it seems possible that owing to the position of your house and garden, you may have been able to tell us something we want to know about yesterday evening.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was in my little garden from five o’clock onwards yesterday, and, of course, from there—well, one simply cannot help seeing anything that is going on next door.”

  “I understand, Miss Marple, that Mrs. Protheroe passed this way yesterday evening?”

  “Yes, she did. I called out to her, and she admired my roses.”

  “Could you tell us about what time that was?”

  “I should say it was just a minute or two after a quarter past six. Yes, that’s right. The church clock had just chimed the quarter.”

  “Very good. What happened next?”

  “Well, Mrs. Protheroe said she was calling for her husband at the Vicarage so that they could go home together. She had come along the lane, you understand, and she went into the Vicarage by the back gate and across the garden.”

  “She came from the lane?”

  “Yes, I’ll show you.”

  Full of eagerness, Miss Marp
le led us out into the garden and pointed out the lane that ran along by the bottom of the garden.

  “The path opposite with the stile leads to the Hall,” she explained. “That was the way they were going home together. Mrs. Protheroe came from the village.”

  “Perfectly, perfectly,” said Colonel Melchett. “And she went across to the Vicarage, you say?”

  “Yes. I saw her turn the corner of the house. I suppose the Colonel wasn’t there yet, because she came back almost immediately, and went down the lawn to the studio—that building there. The one the Vicar lets Mr. Redding use as a studio.”

  “I see. And—you didn’t hear a shot, Miss Marple?”

  “I didn’t hear a shot then,” said Miss Marple.

  “But you did hear one sometime?”

  “Yes, I think there was a shot somewhere in the woods. But quite five or ten minutes afterwards—and, as I say, out in the woods. At least, I think so. It couldn’t have been—surely it couldn’t have been—”

  She stopped, pale with excitement.

  “Yes, yes, we’ll come to all that presently,” said Colonel Melchett. “Please go on with your story. Mrs. Protheroe went down to the studio?”

  “Yes, she went inside and waited. Presently Mr. Redding came along the lane from the village. He came to the Vicarage gate, looked all round—”

  “And saw you, Miss Marple.”

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t see me,” said Miss Marple, flushing slightly. “Because, you see, just at that minute I was bending right over—trying to get up one of those nasty dandelions, you know. So difficult. And then he went through the gate and down to the studio.”

  “He didn’t go near the house?”

  “Oh, no! He went straight to the studio. Mrs. Protheroe came to the door to meet him, and then they both went inside.”

  Here Miss Marple contributed a singularly eloquent pause.

  “Perhaps she was sitting for him?” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Marple.

  “And they came out—when?”

  “About ten minutes later.”

  “That was roughly?”

  “The church clock had chimed the half hour. They strolled out through the garden gate and along the lane, and just at that minute, Dr. Stone came down the path leading to the Hall, and climbed over the stile and joined them. They all walked towards the village together. At the end of the lane, I think, but I can’t be quite sure, they were joined by Miss Cram. I think it must have been Miss Cram because her skirts were so short.”