The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  I think that that is the danger of Haydock’s views. They may be sound in themselves—it is not for me to say—but they produce an impression on the young careless mind which I am sure Haydock himself never meant to convey.

  Griselda looked out of the window and remarked that there were reporters in the garden.

  “I suppose they’re photographing the study windows again,” she said, with a sigh.

  We had suffered a good deal in this way. There was first the idle curiosity of the village—everyone had come to gape and stare. There were next the reporters armed with cameras, and the village again to watch the reporters. In the end we had to have a constable from Much Benham on duty outside the window.

  “Well,” I said, “the funeral is tomorrow morning. After that, surely, the excitement will die down.”

  I noticed a few reporters hanging about Old Hall when we arrived there. They accosted me with various queries to which I gave the invariable answer (we had found it the best), that, “I had nothing to say.”

  We were shown by the butler into the drawing room, the sole occupant of which turned out to be Miss Cram—apparently in a state of high enjoyment.

  “This is a surprise, isn’t it?” she said, as she shook hands. “I never should have thought of such a thing, but Mrs. Protheroe is kind, isn’t she? And, of course, it isn’t what you might call nice for a young girl to be staying alone at a place like the Blue Boar, reporters about and all. And, of course, it’s not as though I haven’t been able to make myself useful—you really need a secretary at a time like this, and Miss Protheroe doesn’t do anything to help, does she?”

  I was amused to notice that the old animosity against Lettice persisted, but that the girl had apparently become a warm partisan of Anne’s. At the same time I wondered if the story of her coming here was strictly accurate. In her account the initiative had come from Anne, but I wondered if that were really so. The first mention of disliking to be at the Blue Boar alone might have easily come from the girl herself. Whilst keeping an open mind on the subject, I did not fancy that Miss Cram was strictly truthful.

  At that moment Anne Protheroe entered the room.

  She was dressed very quietly in black. She carried in her hand a Sunday paper which she held out to me with a rueful glance.

  “I’ve never had any experience of this sort of thing. It’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it? I saw a reporter at the inquest. I just said that I was terribly upset and had nothing to say, and then he asked me if I wasn’t very anxious to find my husband’s murderer, and I said ‘Yes.’ And then whether I had any suspicions, and I said ‘No.’ And whether I didn’t think the crime showed local knowledge, and I said it seemed to certainly. And that was all. And now look at this!”

  In the middle of the page was a photograph, evidently taken at least ten years ago—Heaven knows where they had dug it out. There were large headlines:

  WIDOW DECLARES SHE WILL NEVER REST TILL SHE HAS HUNTED DOWN HUSBAND’S MURDERER.

  Mrs. Protheroe, the widow of the murdered man, is certain that the murderer must be looked for locally. She has suspicions, but no certainty. She declared herself prostrated with grief, but reiterated her determination to hunt down the murderer.

  “It doesn’t sound like me, does it?” said Anne.

  “I dare say it might have been worse,” I said, handing back the paper.

  “Impudent, aren’t they?” said Miss Cram. “I’d like to see one of those fellows trying to get something out of me.”

  By the twinkle in Griselda’s eye, I was convinced that she regarded this statement as being more literally true than Miss Cram intended it to appear.

  Luncheon was announced, and we went in. Lettice did not come in till halfway through the meal, when she drifted into the empty place with a smile for Griselda and a nod for me. I watched her with some attention, for reasons of my own, but she seemed much the same vague creature as usual. Extremely pretty—that in fairness I had to admit. She was still not wearing mourning, but was dressed in a shade of pale green that brought out all the delicacy of her fair colouring.

  After we had had coffee, Anne said quietly:

  “I want to have a little talk with the Vicar. I will take him up to my sitting room.”

  At last I was to learn the reason of our summons. I rose and followed her up the stairs. She paused at the door of the room. As I was about to speak, she stretched out a hand to stop me. She remained listening, looking down towards the hall.

  “Good. They are going out into the garden. No—don’t go in there. We can go straight up.”

  Much to my surprise she led the way along the corridor to the extremity of the wing. Here a narrow ladder-like staircase rose to the floor above, and she mounted it, I following. We found ourselves in a dusty boarded passage. Anne opened a door and led me into a large dim attic which was evidently used as a lumber room. There were trunks there, old broken furniture, a few stacked pictures, and the many countless odds and ends which a lumber room collects.

  My surprise was so evident that she smiled faintly.

  “First of all, I must explain. I am sleeping very lightly just now. Last night—or rather this morning about three o’clock, I was convinced that I heard someone moving about the house. I listened for some time, and at last got up and came out to see. Out on the landing I realized that the sounds came, not from down below, but from up above. I came along to the foot of these stairs. Again I thought I heard a sound. I called up, ‘Is anybody there?’ But there was no answer, and I heard nothing more, so I assumed that my nerves had been playing tricks on me, and went back to bed.

  “However, early this morning, I came up here—simply out of curiosity. And I found this!”

  She stooped down and turned round a picture that was leaning against the wall with the back of the canvas towards us.

  I gave a gasp of surprise. The picture was evidently a portrait in oils, but the face had been hacked and cut in such a savage way as to render it unrecognizable. Moreover, the cuts were clearly quite fresh.

  “What an extraordinary thing,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? Tell me, can you think of any explanation?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s a kind of savagery about it,” I said, “that I don’t like. It looks as though it had been done in a fit of maniacal rage.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

  “What is the portrait?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. I have never seen it before. All these things were in the attic when I married Lucius and came here to live. I have never been through them or bothered about them.”

  “Extraordinary,” I commented.

  I stooped down and examined the other pictures. They were very much what you would expect to find—some very mediocre landscapes, some oleographs and a few cheaply-framed reproductions.

  There was nothing else helpful. A large old-fashioned trunk, of the kind that used to be called an “ark,” had the initials E.P. upon it. I raised the lid. It was empty. Nothing else in the attic was the least suggestive.

  “It really is a most amazing occurrence,” I said. “It’s so—senseless.”

  “Yes,” said Anne. “That frightens me a little.”

  There was nothing more to see. I accompanied her down to her sitting room where she closed the door.

  “Do you think I ought to do anything about it? Tell the police?”

  I hesitated.

  “It’s hard to say on the face of it whether—”

  “It has anything to do with the murder or not,” finished Anne. “I know. That’s what is so difficult. On the face of it, there seems no connection whatever.”

  “No,” I said, “but it is another Peculiar Thing.”

  We both sat silent with puzzled brows.

  “What are your plans, if I may ask?” I said presently.

  She lifted her head.

  “I’m going to live here for at least another six months!” She said it defiantly. “I don’
t want to. I hate the idea of living here. But I think it’s the only thing to be done. Otherwise people will say that I ran away—that I had a guilty conscience.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Oh! Yes, they will. Especially when—” She paused and then said: “When the six months are up—I am going to marry Lawrence.” Her eyes met mine. “We’re neither of us going to wait any longer.”

  “I supposed,” I said, “that that would happen.”

  Suddenly she broke down, burying her head in her hands.

  “You don’t know how grateful I am to you—you don’t know. We’d said good-bye to each other—he was going away. I feel—I feel so awful about Lucius’s death. If we’d been planning to go away together, and he’d died then—it would be so awful now. But you made us both see how wrong it would be. That’s why I’m grateful.”

  “I, too, am thankful,” I said gravely.

  “All the same, you know,” she sat up. “Unless the real murderer is found they’ll always think it was Lawrence—oh! Yes, they will. And especially when he marries me.”

  “My dear, Dr. Haydock’s evidence made it perfectly clear—”

  “What do people care about evidence? They don’t even know about it. And medical evidence never means anything to outsiders anyway. That’s another reason why I’m staying on here. Mr. Clement, I’m going to find out the truth.”

  Her eyes flashed as she spoke. She added:

  “That’s why I asked that girl here.”

  “Miss Cram?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did ask her, then. I mean, it was your idea?”

  “Entirely. Oh! As a matter of fact, she whined a bit. At the inquest—she was there when I arrived. No, I asked her here deliberately.”

  “But surely,” I cried, “you don’t think that that silly young woman could have anything to do with the crime?”

  “It’s awfully easy to appear silly, Mr. Clement. It’s one of the easiest things in the world.”

  “Then you really think—?”

  “No, I don’t. Honestly, I don’t. What I do think is that that girl knows something—or might know something. I wanted to study her at close quarters.”

  “And the very night she arrives, that picture is slashed,” I said thoughtfully.

  “You think she did it? But why? It seems so utterly absurd and impossible.”

  “It seems to me utterly impossible and absurd that your husband should have been murdered in my study,” I said bitterly. “But he was.”

  “I know.” She laid her hand on my arm. “It’s dreadful for you. I do realize that, though I haven’t said very much about it.”

  I took the blue lapis lazuli earring from my pocket and held it out to her.

  “This is yours, I think?”

  “Oh, yes!” She held out her hand for it with a pleased smile. “Where did you find it?”

  But I did not put the jewel into her outstretched hand.

  “Would you mind,” I said, “if I kept it a little longer?”

  “Why, certainly.” She looked puzzled and a little inquiring. I did not satisfy her curiosity.

  Instead I asked her how she was situated financially.

  “It is an impertinent question,” I said, “but I really do not mean it as such.”

  “I don’t think it’s impertinent at all. You and Griselda are the best friends I have here. And I like that funny old Miss Marple. Lucius was very well off, you know. He left things pretty equally divided between me and Lettice. Old Hall goes to me, but Lettice is to be allowed to choose enough furniture to furnish a small house, and she is left a separate sum for the purpose of buying one, so as to even things up.”

  “What are her plans, do you know?”

  Anne made a comical grimace.

  “She doesn’t tell them to me. I imagine she will leave here as soon as possible. She doesn’t like me—she never has. I dare say it’s my fault, though I’ve really always tried to be decent. But I suppose any girl resents a young stepmother.”

  “Are you fond of her?” I asked bluntly.

  She did not reply at once, which convinced me that Anne Protheroe is a very honest woman.

  “I was at first,” she said. “She was such a pretty little girl. I don’t think I am now. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t like me. I like being liked, you know.”

  “We all do,” I said, and Anne Protheroe smiled.

  I had one more task to perform. That was to get a word alone with Lettice Protheroe. I managed that easily enough, catching sight of her in the deserted drawing room. Griselda and Gladys Cram were out in the garden.

  I went in and shut the door.

  “Lettice,” I said, “I want to speak to you about something.”

  She looked up indifferently.

  “Yes?”

  I had thought beforehand what to say. I held out the lapis earring and said quietly:

  “Why did you drop that in my study?”

  I saw her stiffen for a moment—it was almost instantaneous. Her recovery was so quick that I myself could hardly have sworn to the movement. Then she said carelessly:

  “I never dropped anything in your study. That’s not mine. That’s Anne’s.”

  “I know that,” I said.

  “Well, why ask me, then? Anne must have dropped it.”

  “Mrs. Protheroe has only been in my study once since the murder, and then she was wearing black and so would not have been likely to have had on a blue earring.”

  “In that case,” said Lettice, “I suppose she must have dropped it before.” She added: “That’s only logical.”

  “It’s very logical,” I said. “I suppose you don’t happen to remember when your stepmother was wearing these earrings last?”

  “Oh!” She looked at me with a puzzled, trustful gaze. “Is it very important?”

  “It might be,” I said.

  “I’ll try and think.” She sat there knitting her brows. I have never seen Lettice Protheroe look more charming than she did at that moment. “Oh, yes!” she said suddenly. “She had them on—on Thursday. I remember now.”

  “Thursday,” I said slowly, “was the day of the murder. Mrs. Protheroe came to the study in the garden that day, but if you remember, in her evidence, she only came as far as the study window, not inside the room.”

  “Where did you find this?”

  “Rolled underneath the desk.”

  “Then it looks, doesn’t it,” said Lettice coolly, “as though she hadn’t spoken the truth?”

  “You mean that she came right in and stood by the desk?”

  “Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  Her eyes met mine serenely.

  “If you want to know,” she said calmly, “I never have thought she was speaking the truth.”

  “And I know you are not, Lettice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She was startled.

  “I mean,” I said, “that the last time I saw this earring was on Friday morning when I came up here with Colonel Melchett. It was lying with its fellow on your stepmother’s dressing table. I actually handled them both.”

  “Oh—!” She wavered, then suddenly flung herself sideways over the arm of her chair and burst into tears. Her short fair hair hung down almost touching the floor. It was a strange attitude—beautiful and unrestrained.

  I let her sob for some moments in silence and then I said very gently:

  “Lettice, why did you do it?”

  “What?”

  She sprang up, flinging her hair wildly back. She looked wild—almost terrified.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What made you do it? Was it jealousy? Dislike of Anne?”

  “Oh!—Oh, yes!” She pushed the hair back from her face and seemed suddenly to regain complete self-possession. “Yes, you can call it jealousy. I’ve always disliked Anne—ever since she came queening it here. I put the damned thing under the desk. I hoped it would get her into tro
uble. It would have done if you hadn’t been such a Nosey Parker, fingering things on dressing tables. Anyway, it isn’t a clergyman’s business to go about helping the police.”

  It was a spiteful, childish outburst. I took no notice of it. Indeed, at that moment, she seemed a very pathetic child indeed.

  Her childish attempt at vengeance against Anne seemed hardly to be taken seriously. I told her so, and added that I should return the earring to her and say nothing of the circumstances in which I had found it. She seemed rather touched by that.

  “That’s nice of you,” she said.

  She paused a minute and then said, keeping her face averted and evidently choosing her words with care:

  “You know, Mr. Clement, I should—I should get Dennis away from here soon, if I were you I—think it would be better.”

  “Dennis?” I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise but with a trace of amusement too.

  “I think it would be better.” She added, still in the same awkward manner: “I’m sorry about Dennis. I didn’t think he—anyway, I’m sorry.”

  We left it at that.

  Twenty-three

  On the way back, I proposed to Griselda that we should make a detour and go round by the barrow. I was anxious to see if the police were at work and if so, what they had found. Griselda, however, had things to do at home, so I was left to make the expedition on my own.

  I found Constable Hurst in charge of operations.

  “No sign so far, sir,” he reported. “And yet it stands to reason that this is the only place for a cache.”

  His use of the word cache puzzled me for a moment, as he pronounced it catch, but his real meaning occurred to me almost at once.

  “Whatimeantersay is, sir, where else could the young woman be going starting into the wood by that path? It leads to Old Hall, and it leads here, and that’s about all.”

  “I suppose,” I said, “that Inspector Slack would disdain such a simple course as asking the young lady straight out.”

  “Anxious not to put the wind up her,” said Hurst. “Anything she writes to Stone or he writes to her may throw light on things—once she knows we’re on to her, she’d shut up like that.”