Dennis was the next person to arrive on the scene, having just returned from a tennis party. The fact that murder had taken place at the Vicarage seemed to afford him acute satisfaction.
"Fancy being right on the spot in a murder case," he exclaimed. "I've always wanted to be right in the midst of one. Why have the police locked up the study? Wouldn't one of the other door keys fit it?"
I refused to allow anything of the sort to be attempted. Dennis gave in with a bad grace. After extracting every possible detail from me he went out into the garden to look for footprints, remarking cheerfully that it was lucky it was only old Protheroe, whom every one disliked.
His cheerful callousness rather grated on me, but I reflected that I was perhaps being hard on the boy. At Dennis's age a detective story is one of the best things in life, and to find a real detective story, complete with corpse, waiting on one's own front doorstep, so to speak, is bound to send a healthy-minded boy into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. Death means very little to a boy of sixteen.
Griselda came back in about an hour's time. She had seen Anne Protheroe, having arrived just after the Inspector had broken the news to her.
On hearing that Mrs. Protheroe had last seen her husband in the village about a quarter to six, and that she had no light of any kind to throw upon the matter, he had taken his departure, explaining that he would return on the morrow for a fuller interview.
"He was quite decent in his way," said Griselda grudgingly.
"How did Mrs. Protheroe take it?" I asked.
"Well - she was very quiet - but then she always is."
"Yes," I said. "I can't imagine Anne Protheroe going into hysterics."
"Of course it was a great shock. You could see that. She thanked me for coming and said she was very grateful but that there was nothing I could do."
"What about Lettice?"
"She was out playing tennis somewhere. She hadn't got home yet." There was a pause, and then Griselda said:
"You know, Len, she was really very queer - very queer indeed."
"The shock," I suggested.
"Yes - I suppose so. And yet -" Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. "It wasn't like that, somehow. She didn't seem so much bowled over as - well - terrified."
"Terrified?"
"Yes - not showing it, you know. At least not meaning to show it. But a queer, watchful look in her eyes. I wonder if she has a sort of idea who did kill him. She asked again and again if any one were suspected."
"Did she?" I said thoughtfully.
"Yes. Of course Anne's got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasn't as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything."
"Death alters one's feelings sometimes," I said.
"Yes, I suppose so."
Dennis came in and was full of excitement over a footprint he had found in one of the flower beds. He was sure that the police had overlooked it and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery.
I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to "study the latest developments," as he said.
Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morning's sensational bit of news.
We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony.
"Would you believe it? The baker's just told me. They've arrested young Mr. Redding."
"Arrested Lawrence," cried Griselda incredulously. "Impossible. It must be some stupid mistake."
"No mistake about it, mum," said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. "Mr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and 'I did it,' he says. Just like that."
She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other.
"Oh! it isn't true," said Griselda. "It can't be true."
She noticed my silence, and said: "Len, you don't think it's true?"
I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head.
"He must be mad," said Griselda. "Absolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off."
"That doesn't sound at all a likely thing to happen."
"But it must have been an accident of some kind. Because there's not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?"
I could have answered that question very decidedly, but I wished to spare Anne Protheroe as far as possible. There might still be a chance of keeping her name out of it.
"Remember they had had a quarrel," I said.
"About Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but that's absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretly - well, that's not a reason for killing her father."
"We don't know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda."
"You do believe it, Len! Oh! how can you! I tell you, I'm sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head.''
"Remember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman."
"Yes, but - oh! it's impossible."
"There's the clock, too," I said. "This explains the clock. Lawrence must have put it back to 6.20 with the idea of making an alibi for himself. Look how Inspector Slack fell into the trap."
"You're wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. 'Keeping the vicar up to time!' he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6.20. He'd have put the hands somewhere possible - like a quarter to seven."
"He mayn't have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast."
Griselda disagreed.
"No, if you were committing a murder, you'd be awfully careful about things like that."
"You don't know, my dear," I said mildly. "You've never done one."
Before Griselda could reply, a shadow fell across the breakfast table, and a very gentle voice said:
"I hope I am not intruding. You must forgive me. But in the sad circumstances - the very sad circumstances -"
It was our neighbour, Miss Marple. Accepting our polite disclaimers, she stepped in through the window, and I drew up a chair for her. She looked faintly flushed and quite excited.
"Very terrible, is it not? Poor Colonel Protheroe. Not a very pleasant man, perhaps, and not exactly popular, but it's none the less sad for that. And actually shot in the Vicarage study, I understand?"
I said that that had indeed been the case.
"But the dear vicar was not here at the time?" Miss Marple questioned of Griselda. I explained where I had been.
"Mr. Dennis is not with you this morning?" said Miss Marple, glancing round.
"Dennis," said Griselda, "fancies himself as an amateur detective. He is very excited about a footprint he found in one of the flower beds, and I fancy has gone off to tell the police about it."
"Dear, dear," said Miss Marple. "Such a to-do, is it not? And Mr. Dennis thinks he knows who committed the crime. Well, I suppose we all think we know."
"You mean it is obvious?" said Griselda.
"No, dear, I didn't mean that at all. I dare say every one thinks it is somebody different. That is why it is so important to have proofs. I, for instance, am quite convinced I know who did it. But I must admit I haven't one shadow of proof. One must, I know, be very careful of what one says at a time like this - criminal libel, don't they call it? I had made up my mind to be most careful with Inspector Slack. He sent word he would come and see me this morning, but now he has just phoned up to say it won't be necessary after all."
"I suppose, since the arrest, it isn't necessary," I said.
"The arrest?" Miss Marple leaned forward, her cheeks pink with excitement. "
I didn't know there had been an arrest.''
It is so seldom that Miss Marple is worse informed than we are that I had taken it for granted that she would know the latest developments.
"It seems we have been talking at cross purposes," I said. "Yes, there has been an arrest - Lawrence Redding."
"Lawrence Redding?" Miss Marple seemed very surprised. "Now I should not have thought -"
Griselda interrupted vehemently.
"I can't believe it even now. No, not though he has actually confessed."
"Confessed?" said Miss Marple. "You say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at sea - yes, sadly at sea."
"I can't help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident," said Griselda. "Don't you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that."
Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.
"He gave himself up, you say?"
"Yes."
"Oh!" said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. "I am so glad - so very glad."
I looked at her in some surprise.
"It shows a true state of remorse, I suppose," I said.
"Remorse?" Miss Marple looked very surprised. "Oh! but surely, dear, dear vicar, you don't think that he is guilty?"
It was my turn to stare.
"But since he has confessed -"
"Yes, but that just proves it, doesn't it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it."
"No," I said. "I may be dense, but I can't see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have."
"Oh! of course, there's a reason," said Miss Marple. " Naturally. There's always a reason, isn't there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst."
She turned to Griselda.
"Don't you agree with me, my dear?"
"I - I don't know,'' said Griselda. "It's difficult to know what to think. I can't see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot."
"If you had seen his face last night -" I began.
"Tell me," said Miss Marple.
I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.
When I had finished she said:
"I know that I am very often rather foolish and don't take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.
"It seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creature's life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a little flurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself."
"We don't know the circumstances," I argued. "If there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that that is what did actually occur."
"I know, dear Mr. Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr. Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letter - at least that is what my maid told me."
"Quite true," said Griselda. "He seems to have been writing a note to say he couldn't wait any longer. The note was dated 6.20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6.22, and that's just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully."
She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.
"Very curious," said Miss Marple. "Very curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I mean -"
She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring "Morning."
She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:
"They've arrested Lawrence, I hear."
"Yes," said Griselda. "It's been a great shock to us."
"I never rely thought any one would murder father," said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. "Lots of people wanted to, I'm sure. There are times when I'd have liked to do it myself."
"Won't you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?" asked Griselda.
"No, thank you. I just drifted round to see if you'd got my beret here - a queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day."
"If you did, it's there still," said Griselda. "Mary never tidies anything."
"I'll go and see," said Lettice, rising. "Sorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line."
"I'm afraid you can't get it now," I said. "Inspector Slack has locked the room up."
"Oh! what a bore. Can't we get in through the window?"
"I'm afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret won't be much good to you at present?"
"You mean mourning and all that? I shan't bother about mourning. I think it's an awfully archaic idea. It's a nuisance about Lawrence - yes, it's a nuisance."
She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.
"I suppose it's all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thing..."
Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.
A curious smile came to Lettice's lips.
"I think," she said softly, "I'll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested."
She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple. "Why did you step on my foot?"
The old lady was smiling.
"I thought you were going to say something, my dear. And it is often so much better to let things develop on their own lines. I don't think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. She's got a very definite idea in her head and she's acting upon it."
Mary gave a loud knock on the dining-room door and entered hard upon it.
"What is it?" said Griselda. "And Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. I've told you about it before."
"Thought you might be busy," said Mary. "Colonel Melchett's here. Wants to see the master."
Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.
"I thought you wouldn't like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing-room," went on Mary. "Shall I clear?"
"Not yet," said Griselda. "I'll ring."
She turned to Miss Marple and I left the room.
CHAPTER VII
Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpectedly. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.
"Good-morning, vicar," he said. "Nasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didn't. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work for you, too. Hope it hasn't upset your missus?"
I said Griselda had taken it very well.
"That's lucky. Rotten thing to happen in one's house. I must say I'm surprised at young Redding - doing it the way he did. No sort of consideration for any one's feelings."
A wild desire to laugh came over me, but Colonel Melchett evidently saw nothing odd in the idea of a murderer being considerate, so I held my peace.
"I must say I was rather taken aback when I heard the fellow had marched in and given himself up," continued Colonel Melchett, dropping on to a chair.
"How did it happen exactly?"
"Last night. About ten o'clock. Fellow rolls in, throws down a pistol, and says: 'Here I am. I did it.' Just like that."
"What account does he give of the business?"
"Precious little. He was warned, of course,
about making a statement. But he merely laughed. Said he came here to see you - found Protheroe here. They had words and he shot him. Won't say what the quarrel was about. Look here, Clement - just between you and me, do you know anything about it? I've heard rumours - about his being forbidden the house and all that. What was it - did he seduce the daughter, or what? We don't want to bring the girl into it more than we can help for everybody's sake. Was that the trouble?"
Agatha Christie - Murder at the Vicarage Page 5
