"Very glad to have met you," said Lawrence. "Come to my place."
We turned in at the little rustic gate, went up the path, and he drew a
key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.
"You keep the door locked now," I observed.
"Yes." He laughed rather bitterly. "Case of stable door when the
steed is gone, eh? It is rather like that. You know, padre," he held
the door open and I passed inside, "there's something about all
this business that I don't like. It's too much of--how shall I put
it?--an inside job. Someone knew about that pistol of mine. That means
that the murderer, whoever he was, must have actually been in this
house--perhaps even had a drink with me."
"Not necessarily," I objected. "The whole village of St. Mary Mead
probably knows exactly where you keep your tooth brush and what kind of
tooth powder you use."
"But why should it interest them?"
"I don't know," I said, "but it does. If you change your shaving cream
it will be a topic of conversation."
"They must be very hard up for news."
"They are. Nothing exciting ever happens here."
"Well, it has now--with a vengeance."
I agreed.
"And who tells them all these things, anyway? Shaving cream and things
like that?"
"Probably old Mrs. Archer."
"That old crone? She's practically a half wit, as far as I can make
out."
"That's merely the camouflage of the poor," I explained. "They take
refuge behind a mask of stupidity. You'll probably find that the old
lady has all her wits about her. By the way, she seems very certain now
that the pistol was in its proper place mid-day Thursday. What's made
her so positive all of a sudden?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"Do you think she's right?"
"There again I haven't the least idea. I don't go round taking an
inventory of my possessions every day."
I looked round the small living room. Every shelf and table was
littered with miscellaneous articles. Lawrence lived in the midst of an
artistic disarray that would have driven me quite mad.
"It's a bit of a job finding things sometimes," he said, observing my
glance. "On the other hand, everything is handy--not tucked away."
"Nothing is tucked away, certainly," I agreed. "It might perhaps have
been better if the pistol had been."
"Do you know, I rather expected the Coroner to say something of the
sort. Coroners are such asses. I expected to be censured, or whatever
they call it."
"By the way," I asked. "Was it loaded?"
Lawrence shook his head.
"I'm not quite so careless as that. It was unloaded, but there was a
box of cartridges beside it."
"It was apparently loaded in all six chambers, and one shot had been
fired."
Lawrence nodded.
"And whose hand fired it? It's all very well, sir, but unless the real
murderer is discovered I shall be suspected of the crime to the day of
my death."
"Don't say that, my boy."
"But I do say it."
He became silent, frowning to himself. He roused himself at last and
said:
"But let me tell you how I got on last night. You know, old Miss Marple
knows a thing or two."
"She is, I believe, rather unpopular on that account."
Lawrence proceeded to recount his story.
He had, following Miss Marple's advice, gone up to Old Hall. There,
with Anne's assistance, he had had an interview with the parlour maid.
Anne had said simply:
"Mr. Redding wants to ask you a few questions, Rose."
Then she had left the room.
Lawrence had felt somewhat nervous. Rose, a pretty girl of twenty-five,
gazed at him with a limpid gaze which he found rather disconcerting.
"It's--it's about Colonel Protheroe's death."
"Yes, sir?"
"I'm very anxious, you see, to get at the truth."
"Yes, sir."
"I feel that there may be--that someone might--that--that--there might
be some incident--"
At this point Lawrence felt that he was not covering himself with
glory, and heartily cursed Miss Marple and her suggestions.
"I wondered if you could help me?"
"Yes, sir?"
Rose's demeanour was still that of the perfect servant, polite, anxious
to assist, and completely uninterested.
"Dash it all," said Lawrence. "Haven't you talked the thing over in the
servants' hall?"
This method of attack flustered Rose slightly. Her perfect poise was
shaken.
"In the servants' hall, sir?"
"Or the housekeeper's room, or the bootboy's dugout, or wherever you do
talk? There must be _some_ place."
Rose displayed a very faint disposition to giggle, and Lawrence felt
encouraged.
"Look here, Rose, you're an awfully nice girl. I'm sure you must
understand what I'm feeling like. I don't want to be hanged. I didn't
murder your master, but a lot of people think I did. Can't you help me
in any way?"
I can imagine at this point that Lawrence must have looked extremely
appealing. His handsome head thrown back, his Irish blue eyes
appealing. Rose softened and capitulated.
"Oh! sir, I'm sure--if any of us could help in any way. None of us
think you did it, sir. Indeed we don't."
"I know, my dear girl, but that's not going to help me with the police."
"The police!" Rose tossed her head. "I can tell you, sir, we don't
think much of that Inspector. Slack, he calls himself. The police
indeed."
"All the same, the police are very powerful. Now, Rose, you say you'll
do your best to help me. I can't help feeling that there's a lot we
haven't got at yet. The lady, for instance, who called to see Colonel
Protheroe the night before he died."
"Mrs. Lestrange?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lestrange. I can't help feeling there's something rather odd
about that visit of hers."
"Yes, indeed, sir; that's what we all said."
"You did?"
"Coming the way she did. And asking for the Colonel. And of course
there's been a lot of talk--nobody knowing anything about her down
here. And Mrs. Simmons, she's the housekeeper, sir, she gave it as her
opinion that she was a regular bad lot. But after hearing what Gladdie
said, well, I didn't know what to think."
"What did Gladdie say?"
"Oh! nothing, sir. It was just--we were talking, you know."
Lawrence looked at her. He had the feeling of something kept back.
"I wonder very much what her interview with Colonel Protheroe was
about."
"Yes, sir."
"I believe you know, Rose?"
"Me? Oh! no, sir. Indeed I don't. How could I?"
"Look here, Rose. You said you'd help me. If you overheard anything,
anything at all--it mightn't seem important, but anything ... I'd be so
awfully grateful to you. After all, anyone might--might chance--just
_chance_ to overhear something."
"But I didn't, sir, really I didn't."
"Then somebody else did," said Lawrence acutely.
"Well, sir--"
"Do tell me, Rose."
"I don't know what Gladdie would say, I'm sure."
"She'd want you to tell me. Who _is_ Gladdie, by the way?"
"She's the kitchen maid, sir. And you see, she'd just stepped out
to speak to a friend, and she was passing the window--the study
window--and the master was there with the lady. And of course he did
speak very loud, the master did, always. And naturally, feeling a
little curious--I mean--"
"Awfully natural," said Lawrence. "I mean one would simply have to
listen."
"But of course she didn't tell anyone--except me. And we both thought
it very odd. But Gladdie couldn't say anything, you see, because if it
was known she'd gone out to meet a--a friend--well, it would have meant
a lot of unpleasantness with Mrs. Pratt; that's the cook, sir. But I'm
sure she'd tell you anything, sir, willing."
"Well, can I go to the kitchen and speak to her?"
Rose was horrified by the suggestion.
"Oh! no, sir, that would never do. And Gladdie's a very nervous girl
anyway."
At last the matter was settled, after a lot of discussion over
difficult points. A clandestine meeting was arranged in the shrubbery.
Here, in due course, Lawrence was confronted by the nervous Gladdie,
whom he described as more like a shivering rabbit than anything human.
Ten minutes were spent in trying to put the girl at her ease, the
shivering Gladys explaining that she couldn't ever--that she didn't
ought, that she didn't think Rose would have given her away, that
anyway she hadn't meant no harm, indeed she hadn't, and that she'd
catch it badly if Mrs. Pratt ever came to hear of it.
Lawrence reassured, cajoled, persuaded--at last Gladys consented to
speak.
"If you'll be sure it'll go no further, sir."
"Of course it won't."
"And it won't be brought up against me in a court of law?"
"Never."
"And you won't tell the mistress?"
"Not on any account."
"If it were to get to Mrs. Pratt's ears--"
"It won't. Now tell me, Gladys."
"If you're sure it's all right?"
"Of course it is. You'll be glad some day you've saved me from being
hanged."
Gladys gave a little shriek.
"Oh! indeed, I wouldn't like that, sir. Well, it's very little I
heard--and that entirely by accident, as you might say--"
"I quite understand."
"But the master, he was evidently very angry. 'After all these years--'
that's what he was saying--'you dare to come here. It's an outrage--' I
couldn't hear what the lady said--but after a bit he said, 'I utterly
refuse--utterly.' I can't remember everything--seemed as though they
were at it hammer and tongs, she wanting him to do something and he
refusing. 'It's a disgrace that you should have come down here,' that's
one thing he said. And 'You shall not see her--I forbid it.' And that
made me prick up my ears. Looked as though the lady wanted to tell Mrs.
Protheroe a thing or two, and he was afraid about it. And I thought to
myself 'Well, now, fancy the master. Him so particular. And maybe no
beauty himself when all's said and done. Fancy!' I said. And 'Men are
all alike,' I said to my friend later. Not that he'd agree. Argued, he
did. But he did admit he was surprised at Colonel Protheroe--him, being
a churchwarden and handing round the plate and reading the lessons
on Sundays. 'But there,' I said, 'that's very often the worst.' For
that's what I've heard my mother say, many a time."
Gladdie paused, out of breath, and Lawrence tried tactfully to get back
to where the conversation had started.
"Did you hear anything else?"
"Well, it's difficult to remember exactly, sir. It was all much the
same. He said once or twice 'I don't believe it.' Just like that.
'Whatever Haydock says, I don't believe it.'"
"He said that, did he? 'Whatever Haydock says?'"
"Yes. And he said it was all a plot."
"You didn't hear the lady speak at all?"
"Only just at the end. She must have got up to go and come nearer the
window. And I heard what she said. Made my blood run cold, it did. I'll
never forget it. '_By this time tomorrow night, you may be dead_,' she
said. Wicked the way she said it. As soon as I heard the news: 'There,'
I said to Rose. 'There!'"
Lawrence wondered. Principally he wondered how much of Gladys's story
was to be depended upon. True, in the main, he suspected that it had
been embellished and polished since the murder. In especial he doubted
the accuracy of the last remark. He thought it highly possible that it
owed its being to the fact of the murder.
He thanked Gladys, rewarded her suitably, reassured her as to her
misdoings being made known to Mrs. Pratt, and left Old Hall with a good
deal to think over.
One thing was clear; Mrs. Lestrange's interview with Colonel Protheroe
had certainly not been a peaceful one, and it was one which he was
anxious to keep from the knowledge of his wife.
I thought of Miss Marple's churchwarden with his separate
establishment. Was this a case resembling that?
I wondered more than ever where Haydock came in. He had saved Mrs.
Lestrange from having to give evidence at the inquest. He had done his
best to protect her from the police.
How far would he carry that protection?
Supposing he suspected her of crime--would he still try and shield her?
She was a curious woman--a woman of very strong magnetic charm. I
myself hated the thought of connecting her with the crime in any way.
Something in me said, "It can't be her!"
Why?
And an imp in my brain replied, "Because she's a very beautiful and
attractive woman. That's why."
There is, as Miss Marple would say, a lot of human nature in all of us.