Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I
think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the
clock.
"Well, sir," he greeted me. "I've traced that telephone call that you
received."
"Indeed?" I said eagerly.
"It's rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old
Hall. Now that Lodge is empty; the lodgekeepers have been pensioned
off, and the new lodgekeepers aren't in yet. The place was empty and
convenient--a window at the back was open. No finger prints on the
instrument itself--it had been wiped clean. That's suggestive."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get you
out of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance.
If it had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints
wouldn't have been wiped off so carefully."
"No, I see that."
"It also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall and
its surroundings. It wasn't Mrs. Protheroe who put that call through.
I've accounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There
are half a dozen servants who can swear that she was at home up till
five-thirty. Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and
her to the village. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one
of the horses. Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocer's and at
the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where
Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with
her. The old lady was right."
"She usually is," I said mildly.
"And Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5.30."
"Quite so," I said. "My nephew was there too."
"That disposes of her. The maids seem all right--a bit hysterical and
upset, but what can you expect? Of course, I've got my eye on the
butler--what with giving notice and all. But I don't think he knows
anything about it."
"Your inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector."
"They do and they do not, sir. There's one very queer thing has turned
up--quite unexpectedly, I may say."
"Yes?"
"You remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door
to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the
telephone?"
"Yes?" I said.
"Well we traced the call just to calm her--and where on this earth do
you think it was put through from?"
"A call office?" I hazarded.
"No, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Redding's
cottage."
"What?" I exclaimed, surprised.
"Yes. A bit odd, isn't it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At
that time, 6.35, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone,
in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone
walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone. Who was it?
That's two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think there's
some connection between them. I'll eat my hat if they weren't both put
through by the same person."
"But with what object?"
"Well, that's what we've got to find out. There seems no particular
point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you
see the significance? Mr. Redding's house used to telephone from. Mr.
Redding's pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding."
"It would be more to the point to have put through the _first_ call
from his house," I objected.
"Ah! But I've been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most
afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from
his cottage, he'd go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North
Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there.
_The murderer is someone who didn't know about the quarrel, and that
Mr. Redding wasn't going up to Old Hall anymore._"
I reflected a moment to let the Inspector's points sink into my brain.
They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.
"Were there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Redding's cottage?"
I asked.
"There were not," said the Inspector bitterly. "That dratted old woman
who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday
morning." He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. "She's a stupid
old fool anyway. Can't remember when she saw the pistol last. It might
have been there on the morning of the crime or it might not. 'She
couldn't say, she's sure.' They're all alike!
"Just as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone," he went on.
"I must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went
up to that mound--or barrow--or whatever you call it, about half past
two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back
alone, and she came later. He says he didn't hear any shot, but admits
he's absent-minded. But it all bears out what we think."
"Only," I said, "you haven't caught the murderer."
"H'm," said the Inspector. "It was a woman's voice you heard through
the telephone. It was, in all probability, a woman's voice Mrs. Price
Ridley heard. If only that shot hadn't come hard on the close of the
telephone call--well, I'd know where to look."
"Where?"
"Ah! that's just what it's best not to say, sir."
Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine
old vintage port. Eleven o'clock in the morning is not the usual time
for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector
Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must
not be squeamish about such things.
When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to
unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.
"I don't suppose it matters with you, sir," he said. "You'll keep it to
yourself? No letting it get round the parish."
I reassured him.
"Seeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as
though you had a right to know."
"Just what I feel myself," I said.
"Well, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe
the night before the murder?"
"Mrs. Lestrange?" I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.
The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.
"Not so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady I've got my eye on. You
remember what I told you--blackmail."
"Hardly a reason for murder. Wouldn't it be a case of killing the goose
that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is
true, which I don't for a minute admit."
The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.
"Ah! she's the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look
here, sir. Suppose she's successfully blackmailed the old gentleman
in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down
here and tries it on again. _But_ in the meantime, things have changed.
The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given
nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmail--names are not allowed to
be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and
says he'll have the law on her. She's in a nasty position. They give a
very severe sentence for blackmail. The boot's on the other leg. The
only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick."
I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up
was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissible--the
personality of Mrs. Lestrange.
"I don't agree with you, Inspector," I said. "Mrs. Lestrange doesn't
seem to me to be a potential blackmailer. She's--well, it's an
old-fashioned word, but she's a--lady."
He threw me a pitying glance.
"Ah! well, sir," he said tolerantly. "You're a clergyman. You don't
know half of what goes on. Lady indeed! You'd be surprised if you knew
some of the things I know."
"I'm not referring to mere social position. Anyway I should imagine
Mrs. Lestrange to be a _déclassée_. What I mean is a question
of--personal refinement."
"You don't see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a man--but
I'm a police officer too. They can't get over me with their personal
refinement. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into
you without turning a hair."
Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs. Lestrange guilty of murder more
easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.
"But of course she can't have been telephoning to the old lady next
door and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,"
continued the Inspector.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg
ferociously.
"Got it," he exclaimed. "That's the point of the telephone call. Kind
of _alibi_. Knew we'd connect it with the first one. I'm going to look
into this. She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for
her. _He'd_ never think of connecting it with the murder."
The Inspector hurried off.
"Miss Marple wants to see you," said Griselda putting her head in.
"She sent over a very incoherent note--all spidery and underlined.
I couldn't read most of it. Apparently she can't leave home herself.
Hurry up and go across and see her and find out what it is. I've got
my old women coming in two minutes or I'd come myself. I do hate old
women--they tell you about their bad legs, and sometimes insist on
showing them to you. What luck that the inquest is this afternoon! You
won't have to go and watch the Boys' Club Cricket Match."
I hurried off considerably exercised in my own mind as to the reason
for this summons.
I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She
was very pink and slightly incoherent.
"My nephew," she explained. "My nephew, Raymond West, the author. He is
coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself.
You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course,
have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do they
not? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the house--and
a siphon."
"If I can do anything--" I began.
"Oh! how very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of time
really. He brings his own pipe tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad because
it saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy.
But rather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get
out of the curtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well
very early every morning. Raymond gets up very late--I think writers
often do. He writes very clever books, I believe, though people are not
really nearly so unpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so
little of life, don't you think?"
"Would you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?" I asked, still
unable to gather why I had been summoned.
"Oh! no, thank you," said Miss Marple. "It's very kind of you," she
added.
"There was--er--something you wanted to see me about, I think," I
suggested, desperately.
"Oh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my
head." She broke off and called to her maid: "Emily--Emily. Not those
sheets. The frilled ones with the monogram, and don't put them too near
the fire."
She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.
"It's just rather a curious thing that happened last night," she
explained. "I thought you would like to hear about it, though at
the moment it doesn't seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last
night--wondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked
out of my window. And what do you think I saw?"
I looked inquiring.
"Gladys Cram," said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. "As I live, going
into the wood with a suitcase."
"A suitcase?"
"Isn't it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the
wood at twelve o'clock at night?"
We both stared at each other.
"You see," said Miss Marple. "I daresay it has nothing to do with the
murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we
must take notice of Peculiar Things."
"Perfectly amazing," I said. "Was she going to--er--sleep in the barrow
by any chance?"
"She didn't, at any rate," said Miss Marple. "Because quite a short
time afterwards she came back, and she hadn't got the suitcase with
her."
We stared at each other again.