On the way back, I proposed to Griselda that we should make a detour
and go round by the barrow. I was anxious to see if the police were at
work and, if so, what they had found. Griselda, however, had things to
do at home, so I was left to make the expedition on my own.
I found Constable Hurst in charge of operations.
"No sign so far, sir," he reported, "and yet it stands to reason that
this is the only place for a _cache_."
His use of the word _cache_ puzzled me for the moment, as he pronounced
it catch, but his real meaning occurred to me almost at once.
"Whatimeantersay is, sir, where else could the young woman be going,
starting into the wood by that path? It leads to Old Hall, and it leads
here, and that's about all."
"I suppose," I said, "that Inspector Slack would disdain such a simple
course as asking the young lady straight out."
"Anxious not to put the wind up her," said Hurst. "Anything she writes
to Stone or he writes to her may throw light on things--once she knows
we're on to her, she'd shut up like _that_."
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 or 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 a 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,
particularly 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've any reason to believe you know 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 while 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 arrangement, 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."