Like what exactly was left in doubt, but I personally doubted Miss Gladys Cram ever being shut up in the way described. It was impossible to imagine her as other than overflowing with conversation.
“When a man’s an h’impostor, you want to know why he’s an h’impostor,” said Constable Hurst didactically.
“Naturally,” I said.
“And the answer is to be found in this here barrow—or else why was he forever messing about with it?”
“A raison d’être for prowling about,” I suggested, but this bit of French was too much for the constable. He revenged himself for not understanding it by saying coldly:
“That’s the h’amateur’s point of view.”
“Anyway, you haven’t found the suitcase,” I said.
“We shall do, sir. Not a doubt of it.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. Miss Marple said it was quite a short time before the girl reappeared empty-handed. In that case, she wouldn’t have had time to get up here and back.”
“You can’t take any notice of what old ladies say. When they’ve seen something curious, and are waiting all eager like, why, time simply flies for them. And anyway, no lady knows anything about time.”
I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalize. Generalizations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate. I have a poor sense of time myself (hence the keeping of my clock fast) and Miss Marple, I should say, has a very acute one. Her clocks keep time to the minute and she herself is rigidly punctual on every occasion.
However, I had no intention of arguing with Constable Hurst on the point. I wished him good afternoon and good luck and went on my way.
It was just as I was nearing home that the idea came to me. There was nothing to lead up to it. It just flashed into my brain as a possible solution.
You will remember that on my first search of the path, the day after the murder, I had found the bushes disturbed in a certain place. They proved, or so I thought at the time, to have been disturbed by Lawrence, bent on the same errand as myself.
But I remembered that afterwards he and I together had come upon another faintly marked trail which proved to be that of the Inspector. On thinking it over, I distinctly remembered that the first trail (Lawrence’s) had been much more noticeable than the second, as though more than one person had been passing that way. And I reflected that that was probably what had drawn Lawrence’s attention to it in the first instance. Supposing that it had originally been made by either Dr. Stone or else Miss Cram?
I remembered, or else I imagined remembering, that there had been several withered leaves on broken twigs. If so, the trail could not have been made the afternoon of our search.
I was just approaching the spot in question. I recognized it easily enough and once more forced my way through the bushes. This time I noticed fresh twigs broken. Someone had passed this way since Lawrence and myself.
I soon came to the place where I had encountered Lawrence. The faint trail, however, persisted farther, and I continued to follow it. Suddenly it widened out into a little clearing, which showed signs of recent upheaval. I say a clearing, because the denseness of the undergrowth was thinned out there, but the branches of the trees met overhead and the whole place was not more than a few feet across.
On the other side, the undergrowth grew densely again, and it seemed quite clear that no one had forced a way through it recently. Nevertheless, it seemed to have been disturbed in one place.
I went across and kneeled down, thrusting the bushes aside with both hands. A glint of shiny brown surface rewarded me. Full of excitement, I thrust my arm in and with a good deal of difficulty I extracted a small brown suitcase.
I uttered an ejaculation of triumph. I had been successful. Coldly snubbed by Constable Hurst, I had yet proved right in my reasoning. Here without doubt was the suitcase carried by Miss Cram. I tried the hasp, but it was locked.
As I rose to my feet I noticed a small brownish crystal lying on the ground. Almost automatically, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.
Then grasping my find by the handle, I retraced my steps to the path.
As I climbed over the stile into the lane, an agitated voice near at hand called out:
“Oh! Mr. Clement. You’ve found it! How clever of you!”
Mentally registering the fact that in the art of seeing without being seen, Miss Marple had no rival, I balanced my find on the palings between us.
“That’s the one,” said Miss Marple “I’d know it anywhere.”
This, I thought, was a slight exaggeration. There are thousands of cheap shiny suitcases all exactly alike. No one could recognize one particular one seen from such a distance away by moonlight, but I realized that the whole business of the suitcase was Miss Marple’s particular triumph and, as such, she was entitled to a little pardonable exaggeration.
“It’s locked, I suppose, Mr. Clement?”
“Yes. I’m just going to take it down to the police station.”
“You don’t think it would be better to telephone?”
Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity.
So I unlatched Miss Marple’s garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing room with the door shut, I telephoned my news.
The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies.
When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood.
“So we’ve got it, have we?” he said. “You know, sir, you shouldn’t keep things to yourself. If you’d any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities.”
“It was a pure accident,” I said. “The idea just happened to occur to me.”
“And that’s a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it.”
I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing.
“Well?” said Inspector Slack, eyeing the suitcase with dislike and would be indifference, “I suppose we might as well have a look at what’s inside.”
He had brought an assortment of keys and wire with him. The lock was a cheap affair. In a couple of seconds the case was open.
I don’t know what we had expected to find—something sternly sensational, I imagine. But the first thing that met our eyes was a greasy plaid scarf. The Inspector lifted it out. Next came a faded dark blue overcoat, very much the worse for wear. A checked cap followed.
“A shoddy lot,” said the Inspector.
A pair of boots very down at heel and battered came next. At the bottom of the suitcase was a parcel done up in newspaper.
“Fancy shirt, I suppose,” said the Inspector bitterly, as he tore it open.
A moment later he had caught his breath in surprise.
For inside the parcel were some demure little silver objects and a round platter of the same metal.
Miss Marple gave a shrill exclamation of recognition.
“The trencher salts,” she exclaimed. “Colonel Protheroe’s trencher salts, and the Charles II tazza. Did you ever hear of such a thing!”
The Inspector had got very red.
“So that was the game,” he muttered. “Robbery. But I can’t make it out. There’s been no mention of these things being missing.”
“Perhaps they haven’t discovered the loss,” I suggested. “I presume these valuable things would not have been kept out in common use. Colonel Protheroe probably kept them locked away in a safe.”
“I must investigate this,” said the Inspector. “I’ll go right up to Old Hall now. So that’s why our Dr. Stone made himself scarce. What with the murder and one thing and another, he
was afraid we’d get wind of his activities. As likely as not his belongings might have been searched. He got the girl to hide them in the wood with a suitable change of clothing. He meant to come back by a roundabout route and go off with them one night whilst she stayed here to disarm suspicion. Well, there’s one thing to the good. This lets him out over the murder. He’d nothing to do with that. Quite a different game.”
He repacked the suitcase and took his departure, refusing Miss Marple’s offer of a glass of sherry.
“Well, that’s one mystery cleared up,” I said with a sigh. “What Slack says is quite true; there are no grounds for suspecting him of the murder. Everything’s accounted for quite satisfactorily.”
“It really would seem so,” said Miss Marple. “Although one never can be quite certain, can one?”
“There’s a complete lack of motive,” I pointed out. “He’d got what he came for and was clearing out.”
“Y—es.”
She was clearly not quite satisfied, and I looked at her in some curiosity. She hastened to answer my inquiring gaze with a kind of apologetic eagerness.
“I’ve no doubt I am quite wrong. I’m so stupid about these things. But I just wondered—I mean this silver is very valuable, is it not?”
“A tazza sold the other day for over a thousand pounds, I believe.”
“I mean—it’s not the value of the metal.”
“No, it’s what one might call a connoisseur’s value.”
“That’s what I mean. The sale of such things would take a little time to arrange, or even if it was arranged, it couldn’t be carried through without secrecy. I mean—if the robbery were reported and a hue and cry were raised, well, the things couldn’t be marketed at all.”
“I don’t quite see what you mean?” I said.
“I know I’m putting it badly.” She became more flustered and apologetic. “But it seems to me that—that the things couldn’t just have been abstracted, so to speak. The only satisfactory thing to do would be to replace these things with copies. Then, perhaps, the robbery wouldn’t be discovered for some time.”
“That’s a very ingenious idea,” I said.
“It would be the only way to do it, wouldn’t it? And if so, of course, as you say, once the substitution had been accomplished there wouldn’t have been any reason for murdering Colonel Protheroe—quite the reverse.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s what I said.”
“Yes, but I just wondered—I don’t know, of course—and Colonel Protheroe always talked a lot about doing things before he actually did do them, and, of course, sometimes never did them at all, but he did say—”
“Yes?”
“That he was going to have all his things valued—a man down from London. For probate—no, that’s when you’re dead—for insurance. Someone told him that was the thing to do. He talked about it a great deal, and the importance of having it done. Of course, I don’t know if he had made any actual arrangements, but if he had….”
“I see,” I said slowly.
“Of course, the moment the expert saw the silver, he’d know, and then Colonel Protheroe would remember having shown the things to Dr. Stone—I wonder if it was done then—legerdemain, don’t they call it? So clever—and then, well, the fat would be in the fire, to use an old-fashioned expression.”
“I see your idea,” I said. “I think we ought to find out for certain.”
I went once more to the telephone. In a few minutes I was through to Old Hall and speaking to Anne Protheroe.
“No, it’s nothing very important. Has the Inspector arrived yet? Oh! Well, he’s on his way. Mrs. Protheroe, can you tell me if the contents of Old Hall were ever valued? What’s that you say?”
Her answer came clear and prompt. I thanked her, replaced the receiver, and turned to Miss Marple.
“That’s very definite. Colonel Protheroe had made arrangements for a man to come down from London on Monday—tomorrow—to make a full valuation. Owing to the Colonel’s death, the matter has been put off.”
“Then there was a motive,” said Miss Marple softly.
“A motive, yes. But that’s all. You forget. When the shot was fired, Dr. Stone had just joined the others, or was climbing over the stile in order to do so.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “So that rules him out.”
Twenty-four
I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study. He was pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he started as though he had been shot.
“You must excuse me,” he said, wiping his forehead. “My nerves are all to pieces lately.”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “you positively must get away for a change. We shall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do.”
“I can’t desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do.”
“It’s not a case of desertion. You are ill. I’m sure Haydock would agree with me.”
“Haydock—Haydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant country practitioner.”
“I think you’re unfair to him. He has always been considered a very able man in his profession.”
“Oh! Perhaps. Yes, I dare say. But I don’t like him. However, that’s not what I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough to preach tonight instead of me. I—I really do not feel equal to it.”
“Why, certainly. I will take the service for you.”
“No, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the idea of getting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at me….”
He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.
It is clear to me that there is something very wrong indeed the matter with Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his eyes and said quickly:
“There is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these headaches—these awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me have a glass of water.”
“Certainly,” I said.
I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a profitless form of exercise in our house.
I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocket a small cardboard box, and opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule, which he swallowed with the aid of the water.
“A headache powder,” he explained.
I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted to drugs. It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.
“You don’t take too many, I hope,” I said.
“No—oh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really wonderful. They bring instant relief.”
Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.
He stood up.
“Then you will preach tonight? It’s very good of you, sir.”
“Not at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home and rest. No, I won’t have any argument. Not another word.”
He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the window:
“You—have been up at Old Hall today, haven’t you, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me—but were you sent for?”
I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.
“I’m sorry, sir. I—I just thought some new development might have arisen and that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you.”
I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawes’s curiosity.
“She wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two other small matters with me,” I said.
“Oh! That was all. I see.”
I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:
“Mr. Redding came to see me last night. I—I can’t imagine why.”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He—he just said he thought he’d look me up. Said it was a bit lonely in the evenings. He’s never done such a thing before.”
“Well, he’s supposed to
be pleasant company,” I said, smiling.
“What does he want to come and see me for? I don’t like it.” His voice rose shrilly. “He spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean? What idea do you think he has got into his head?”
“Why should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?” I asked.
“I don’t like it,” repeated Hawes obstinately. “I’ve never gone against him in any way. I never suggested that he was guilty—even when he accused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If I’ve had suspicions of anybody it’s been of Archer—never of him. Archer is a totally different proposition—a godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” I said. “After all, we really know very little about the man.”
“A poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.”
“Do you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?” I asked curiously.
Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed it several times lately.
“Don’t you think yourself, sir, that it’s the only possible solution?”
“As far as we know,” I said, “there’s no evidence of any kind against him.”
“His threats,” said Hawes eagerly. “You forget about his threats.”
I am sick and tired of hearing about Archer’s threats. As far as I can make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.
“He was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed himself with drink and then shot him.”
“That’s pure supposition.”
“But you will admit that it’s perfectly probable?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Possible, then?”
“Possible, yes.”
Hawes glanced at me sideways.
“Why don’t you think it’s probable?”
“Because,” I said, “a man like Archer wouldn’t think of shooting a man with a pistol. It’s the wrong weapon.”
Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasn’t the objection he had expected.
“Do you really think the objection is feasible?” he asked doubtingly.
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 18
