I saw at a glance that Colonel Melchett and Inspector Slack had not
been seeing eye to eye about the case. Melchett looked flushed and
annoyed, and the Inspector looked sulky.
"I'm sorry to say," said Melchett, "that Inspector Slack doesn't agree
with me in considering young Redding innocent."
"If he didn't do it, what does he go and say he did it for?" asked
Slack sceptically.
"Mrs. Protheroe acted in an exactly similar fashion, remember, Slack."
"That's different. She's a woman, and women act in that silly way. I'm
not saying she did it, for a moment. She heard he was accused, and she
trumped up a story. I'm used to that sort of game. You wouldn't believe
the fool things I've known women do. But Redding's different. He's got
his head screwed on all right. And if he admits he did it, well, I
say he did do it. It's his pistol--you can't get away from that. And,
thanks to this business of Mrs. Protheroe, we know the motive. That was
the weak point before, but now we know it--why, the whole thing's plain
sailing."
"You think he can have shot him earlier? At six-thirty, say?"
"He can't have done that."
"You've checked up his movements?"
The Inspector nodded.
"He was in the village near the Blue Boar at ten past six. From there
he came along the back lane where you say the old lady next door saw
him--she doesn't miss much, I should say,--and kept his appointment
with Mrs. Protheroe in the studio in the garden. They left there
together just after six-thirty and went along the lane to the village,
being joined by Dr. Stone. He corroborates that all right--I've seen
him. They all stood talking just by the post office for a few minutes;
then Mrs. Protheroe went into Miss Hartnell's to borrow a gardening
magazine. That's all right, too. I've seen Miss Hartnell. Mrs.
Protheroe remained there talking to her till just on seven o'clock,
when she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour and said she must get
home."
"What was her manner?"
"Very easy and pleasant, Miss Hartnell said. She seemed in good
spirits--Miss Hartnell is quite sure there was nothing on her mind."
"Well, go on."
"Redding, he went with Dr. Stone to the Blue Boar, and they had a drink
together. He left there at twenty minutes to seven, went rapidly along
the village street and down the road to the Vicarage. Lots of people
saw him."
"Not down the back lane this time?" commented the Colonel.
"No--he came to the front, asked for the Vicar, heard Colonel Protheroe
was there, went in--and shot him--just as he said he did! That's the
truth of it and we needn't look further."
Melchett shook his head.
"There's the doctor's evidence. You can't get away from that. Protheroe
was shot not later than six-thirty."
"Oh! doctors!" Inspector Slack looked contemptuous. "If you're going
to believe doctors. Take out all your teeth--that's what they do
nowadays--and then say they're very sorry, but all the time it was
appendicitis. Doctors!"
"This isn't a question of diagnosis. Dr. Haydock was absolutely
positive on the point. You can't go against the medical evidence,
Slack."
"And there's my evidence for what it is worth," I said, suddenly
recalling a forgotten incident. "I touched the body and it was cold.
That I can swear to."
"You see, Slack?" said Melchett.
Inspector Slack gave in with a good grace.
"Well, of course, if that's so. But there it was--a beautiful case. Mr.
Redding only too anxious to be hanged, so to speak."
"That, in itself, strikes me as a little unnatural," observed Colonel
Melchett.
"Well, there's no accounting for tastes," said the Inspector. "There's
a lot of gentlemen went a bit balmy after the War. Now, I suppose, it
means starting again at the beginning." He turned on me. "Why you went
out of your way to mislead me about the clock, sir, I can't think.
Obstructing the ends of justice, that's what that was."
I was stung.
"I tried to tell you on three separate occasions," I said. "And each
time you shut me up and refused to listen."
"That's just a way of speaking, sir. You could have told me perfectly
well if you had had a mind to. The clock and the note seemed to tally
perfectly. Now, according to you, the clock was all wrong. I never knew
such a case. What's the sense of keeping a clock a quarter of an hour
fast anyway?"
"It is supposed," I said, "to induce punctuality."
The Inspector snorted.
"I don't think we need go farther into that now, Inspector," said
Colonel Melchett tactfully. "What we want now is the true story from
both Mrs. Protheroe and young Redding. I telephoned to Haydock and
asked him to bring Mrs. Protheroe over here with him. They ought to be
here in about a quarter of an hour. I think it would be as well to have
Redding here first."
"I'll get on to the station," said Inspector Slack, and took up the
telephone.
He spoke down it.
"And now," he said replacing the receiver, "we'll get to work on this
room."
He looked at me in a meaning fashion.
"Perhaps," I said, "you'd like me out of the way."
The Inspector immediately opened the door for me. Melchett called out:
"Come back when young Redding arrives, will you, Vicar? You're a friend
of his, and you may have sufficient influence to persuade him to speak
the truth."
I found my wife and Miss Marple with their heads together.
"We've been discussing all sorts of possibilities," said Griselda.
"I wish you'd solve the case, Miss Marple, like you did the way Miss
Wetherby's gill of pickled shrimps disappeared. And all because it
reminded you of something quite different about a sack of coals."
"You're laughing, my dear," said Miss Marple. "But after all, that is a
very sound way of arriving at the truth. It's really what people call
intuition and make such a fuss about. Intuition is like reading a word
without having to spell it out. A child can't do that, because it has
had so little experience. But a grown-up person knows the word because
he's seen it often before. You catch my meaning, Vicar?"
"Yes," I said slowly. "I think I do. You mean that if a thing reminds
you of something else--well, it's probably the same kind of thing."
"Exactly."
"And what precisely does the murder of Colonel Protheroe remind you of?"
Miss Marple sighed.
"That is just the difficulty. So many parallels come to the mind. For
instance, there was Major Hargraves, a churchwarden and a man highly
respected in every way. And all the time he was keeping a separate
second establishment--a former housemaid, just think of it! And five
children--actually five children--a terrible shock to his wife and
daughter."
I tried hard to visualize Colonel Protheroe in the rôle of secret
sinner, and failed.
"And then there was that laundry business," went on Miss Marple. "Miss
Hartnell's opal pin--left most imprudently in a frilled blouse and sent
to the laundry. And the woman who took it didn't want it in the least,
and wasn't by any means a thief. She simply hid it in another woman's
house and told the police she'd seen this other woman take it. Spite,
you know, sheer spite. It's an astonishing motive--spite. A man in it,
of course. There always is."
This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote. Miss Marple
went on in a dreamy voice,
"And then there was poor Elwell's daughter--such a pretty, ethereal
girl--tried to stifle her little brother. And there was the money for
the Choir Boys' Outing (before your time, Vicar) actually taken by the
organist. His wife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think of
so many things--too many. It's very hard to arrive at the truth."
"I wish you would tell me," I said. "Who were the seven suspects?"
"The seven suspects?"
"You said you could think of seven people who would--well, be glad of
Colonel Protheroe's death."
"Did I? Yes, I remember I did."
"Was it true?"
"Oh! certainly it was true. But I mustn't mention names. You can think
of them quite easily yourself, I am sure."
"Indeed I can't. There is Lettice Protheroe, I suppose, since she
probably comes into money on her father's death. But it is absurd to
think of her in such a connection, and outside her I can think of
nobody."
"And you, my dear?" said Miss Marple, turning to Griselda.
Rather to my surprise Griselda coloured up. Something very like tears
started into her eyes. She clenched both her small hands.
"Oh!" she cried indignantly. "People are hateful--hateful. The things
they say! The beastly things they say!"
I looked at her curiously. It is very unlike Griselda to be so upset.
She noticed my glance and tried to smile.
"Don't look at me as though I were an interesting specimen you didn't
understand, Len. Don't let's get heated and wander from the point. I
don't believe that it was Lawrence or Anne, and Lettice is out of the
question. There must be some clue or other that would help us."
"There is the note, of course," said Miss Marple. "You will remember my
saying this morning that that struck me as exceedingly peculiar."
"It seems to fix the time of his death with remarkable accuracy," I
said. "And yet, is that possible? Mrs. Protheroe would only have just
left the study. She would hardly have had time to reach the studio.
The only way in which I can account for it is that he consulted his
own watch and that his watch was slow. That seems to me a feasible
solution."
"I have another idea," said Griselda. "Suppose, Len, that the clock had
already been put back--no, that comes to the same thing--how stupid of
me!"
"It hadn't been altered when I left," I said. "I remember comparing it
with my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present
matter."
"What do you think, Miss Marple?" asked Griselda.
The old lady shook her head.
"My dear, I confess I wasn't thinking about it from that point of view
at all. What strikes me as so curious, and has done from the first, is
the subject matter of that letter."
"I don't see that," I said. "Colonel Protheroe merely wrote that he
couldn't wait any longer--"
"_At twenty minutes past six?_" said Miss Marple. "Your maid, Mary,
had already told him that you wouldn't be in till half past six at the
earliest, and he had appeared to be quite willing to wait until then.
And yet, at twenty past six, he sits down and says he 'can't wait any
longer.'"
I stared at the old lady, feeling an increased respect for her mental
powers. Her keen wits had seen what we had failed to perceive. It _was_
an odd thing--a very odd thing.
"If only," I said, "the letter hadn't been dated--"
Miss Marple nodded her head.
"Exactly," she said. "If it _hadn't_ been dated!"
I cast my mind back, trying to recall that sheet of notepaper and the
blurred scrawl, and at the top that neatly printed 6.20. Surely these
figures were on a different scale to the rest of the letter.
I gave a gasp.
"Supposing," I said, "it wasn't dated. Supposing that round about
6.30 Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldn't
wait any longer. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in
through the window--"
"Or through the door," suggested Griselda.
"He'd hear the door and look up."
"Colonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember," said Miss Marple.
"Yes, that's true. He wouldn't hear it. Whichever way the murderer
came, he stole up behind the Colonel and shot him. Then he saw the note
and the clock and the idea came to him. He put 6.20 at the top of the
letter and he altered the clock to 6.22. It was a clever idea. It gave
him, or so he would think, a perfect alibi."
"And what we want to find," said Griselda, "is someone who has a cast
iron alibi for 6.20, but no alibi at all for--well, that isn't so easy.
One can't fix the time."
"We can fix it within very narrow limits," I said. "Haydock places 6.30
as the outside limit of time. I suppose one could perhaps shift it to
6.35, from the reasoning we have just been following out; it seems
clear that Protheroe would not have got impatient before 6.30. I think
we can say we do know pretty well."
"Then that shot I heard--yes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I
thought nothing about it--nothing at all. Most vexing. And yet, now I
try to recollect, it does seem to me that it was different from the
usual sort of shot one hears. Yes, there was a difference."
"Louder?" I suggested.
No, Miss Marple didn't think it had been louder. In fact, she found it
hard to say in what way it had been different, but she still insisted
that it was.
I thought she was probably persuading herself of the fact rather than
actually remembering it, but she had just contributed such a valuable
new outlook to the problem that I felt highly respectful towards her.
She rose, murmuring that she must really get back--it had been so
tempting just to run over and discuss the case with dear Griselda. I
escorted her to the boundary wall and the back gate, and returned to
find Griselda wrapped in thought.
"Still puzzling over that note?" I asked.
"No."
She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.
"Len, I've been thinking. How badly someone must have hated Anne
Protheroe."
"Hated her?"
"Yes. Don't you see? There's no real evidence against Lawrence--all the
evidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens
to take it into his head to come here. If he hadn't--well, no one would
have thought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different.
Suppose someone knew that she was here at exactly 6.20--the clock and
the time on the letter--everything pointing to her. I don't think it
was only because of an alibi it was moved to that exact time--I think
there was more in it than that--a direct attempt to fasten the business
on her. If it hadn't been for Miss Marple saying she hadn't got the
pistol with her, and noticing that she was only a moment before going
down to the studio--Yes, if it hadn't been for that...." She shivered
again. "Len--I feel that someone hated Anne Protheroe very much. I--I
don't like it."