Inspector Slack's orders, once I had got him on the telephone, were
brief and emphatic. Nothing was to "get about." In particular, Miss
Cram was not to be alarmed. In the meantime, a search was to be
instituted for the suitcase in the neighbourhood of the barrow.
Griselda and I returned home very excited over this new development. We
could not say much with Dennis present, as we had faithfully promised
Inspector Slack to breathe no word to anybody.
In any case, Dennis was full of his own troubles. He came into my
study and began fingering things and shuffling his feet and looking
thoroughly embarrassed.
"What is it, Dennis?" I said at last.
"Uncle Len. I don't want to go to sea."
I was astonished. The boy had been so very decided about his career up
to now.
"But you were so keen on it."
"Yes, but I've changed my mind."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to go into finance."
I was even more surprised.
"What do you mean--finance?"
"Just that. I want to go into the City."
"But my dear boy, I am sure you would not like the life. Even if I
obtained a post for you in a bank--"
Dennis said that wasn't what he meant. He didn't want to go into
a bank. I asked him what exactly he did mean, and of course, as I
suspected, the boy didn't really know.
By "going into finance" he simply meant getting rich quickly, which,
with the optimism of youth, he imagined was a certainty if one "went
into the City." I disabused him of this notion as gently as I could.
"What's put it into your head?" I asked. "You were so satisfied with
the idea of going to sea."
"I know, Uncle Len, but I've been thinking. I shall want to marry some
day--and, I mean, you've got to be rich to marry a girl."
"Facts disprove your theory," I said.
"I know--but a real girl. I mean, a girl who's used to things."
It was very vague but I thought I knew what he meant.
"You know," I said gently, "all girls aren't like Lettice Protheroe."
He fired up at once.
"You're awfully unfair to her. You don't like her. Griselda doesn't
either. She says she's tiresome."
From the feminine point of view, Griselda is quite right. Lettice _is_
tiresome. I could quite realize, however, that a boy would resent the
adjective.
"If only people made a few allowances. Why even the Hartley Napiers are
going about grousing about her at a time like this! Just because she
left their old tennis party a bit early. Why should she stay if she was
bored? Jolly decent of her to go at all, I think."
"Quite a favour," I said, but Dennis suspected no malice. He was full
of his own grievance on Lettice's behalf.
"She's awfully unselfish really. Just to show you, she made me stay.
Naturally I wanted to go too. But she wouldn't hear of it. Said it was
too bad on the Napiers. So, just to please her, I stopped on a quarter
of an hour."
The young have very curious views on unselfishness.
"And now I hear Susan Hartley Napier is going about everywhere saying
Lettice has rotten manners."
"If I were you," I said, "I shouldn't worry."
"It's all very well, but--"
He broke off.
"I'd--I'd do anything for Lettice."
"Very few of us can do anything for anyone else," I said. "However much
we wish it, we are powerless."
"I wish I were dead," said Dennis.
Poor lad. Calf love is a virulent disease. I forebore to say any of the
obvious and probably irritating things which come so easily to one's
lips. Instead I said good night, and went up to bed.
I took the eight o'clock service the following morning, and when I
returned found Griselda sitting at the breakfast table with an open
note in her hand. It was from Anne Protheroe.
DEAR GRISELDA,
_If you and the Vicar could come up and lunch here quietly today, I
should be so very grateful. Something very strange has occurred and
I should like Mr. Clement's advice._
_Please don't mention this when you come, as I have said nothing to
anyone._
_With love_,
_Yours affectionately_,
ANNE PROTHEROE.
"We must go, of course," said Griselda.
I agreed.
"I wonder what can have happened?"
I wondered too.
"You know," I said to Griselda, "I don't feel we are really at the end
of this case yet."
"You mean not till someone has really been arrested?"
"No," I said. "I didn't mean that. I mean that there are ramifications,
undercurrents, that we know nothing about. There are a whole lot of
things to clear up before we get at the truth."
"You mean things that don't really matter, but that get in the way?"
"Yes, I think that expresses my meaning very well."
"I think we're all making a great fuss," said Dennis, helping himself
to marmalade. "It's a jolly good thing old Protheroe is dead. Nobody
liked him. Oh! I know the police have got to worry--it's their job. But
I rather hope myself they'll never find out. I should hate to see Slack
promoted, going about swelling with importance over his cleverness."
I am human enough to feel that I agreed over the matter of Slack's
promotion. A man who goes about systematically rubbing people up the
wrong way cannot hope to be popular.
"Dr. Haydock thinks rather like I do," went on Dennis. "He'd never give
a murderer up to justice. He said so."
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. While 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 daresay 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
half way 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 not so awful
about Lucius' death. If we'd been planning to go away together, and
he'd died then--it wouldn't 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 had 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 daresay 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 studio 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 calmly.
"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 long, 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 trouble. 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.
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--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.