I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study.
He was pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he
started as though he had been shot.
"You must excuse me," he said, wiping his forehead. "My nerves are all
to pieces lately."
"My dear fellow," I said, "you positively must get away for a change.
We shall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do."
"I can't desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do."
"It's not a case of desertion. You are ill. I'm sure Haydock would
agree with me."
"Haydock--Haydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant country
practitioner."
"I think you're unfair to him. He has always been considered a very
able man in his profession."
"Oh! perhaps. Yes, I daresay. But I don't like him. However, that's not
what I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough to
preach tonight instead of me. I--I really do not feel equal to it."
"Why, certainly. I will take the service for you."
"No, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the
idea of getting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at me...."
He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.
It was clear to me that there was something very much indeed the
matter with Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his
eyes and said quickly,
"There is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these
headaches--these awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me
have a glass of water."
"Certainly," I said.
I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a
profitless form of exercise in our house.
I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocket
a small cardboard box and, opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule,
which he swallowed with the aid of the water.
"A headache powder," he explained.
I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted to drugs.
It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.
"You don't take too many, I hope," I said.
"No--oh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really
wonderful. They bring instant relief."
Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.
He stood up.
"Then you will preach tonight? It's very good of you, sir."
"Not at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home and
rest. No, I won't have any argument. Not another word."
He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the
window:
"You--you have been up at Old Hall today, haven't you, sir?"
"Yes."
"Excuse me--but were you sent for?"
I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.
"I'm sorry, sir. I--I just thought some new development might have
arisen, and that that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you."
I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawes' curiosity.
"She wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two other
small matters with me," I said.
"Oh! That was all. I see."
I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:
"Mr. Redding came to see me last night. I--I can't imagine why."
"Didn't he tell you?"
"He--he just said he thought he'd look me up. Said it was a bit lonely
in the evenings. He's never done such a thing before."
"Well, he's supposed to be pleasant company," I said smiling.
"What does he want to come and see me for? I don't like it." His voice
rose shrilly. "He spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean?
What idea do you think he has got into his head?"
"Why should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?" I asked.
"I don't like it," repeated Hawes obstinately. "I've never gone against
_him_ in any way. I never suggested that _he_ was guilty--even when
he accused himself, I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If I've
had suspicions of anybody, it's been of Archer--never of him. Archer
is a totally different proposition--a godless, irreligious ruffian. A
drunken blackguard."
"Don't you think you're being a little harsh?" I said. "After all, we
really know very little about the man."
"A poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything."
"Do you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?" I asked curiously.
Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering "yes" or "no." I have
noticed it several times lately.
"Don't you think yourself, sir, that it's the only possible solution?"
"As far as we know," I said, "there's no evidence of any kind against
him."
"His threats," said Hawes eagerly. "You forget about his threats."
"I am sick and tired of hearing about Archer's threats. As far as I can
make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any."
"He was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed
himself with drink, and then shot him."
"That's pure supposition."
"But you will admit that it's perfectly probable?"
"No, I don't."
"Possible, then?"
"Possible, yes."
Hawes glanced at me sideways.
"Why don't you think it's probable?"
"Because," I said, "a man like Archer wouldn't think of shooting a man
with a pistol. It's the wrong weapon."
Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasn't the
objection he had expected.
"Do you really think the objection is feasible?" he asked doubtingly.
"To my mind it is a complete stumbling block to Archer's having
committed the crime," I said.
In face of my positive assertion, Hawes said no more. He thanked me
again and left.
I had gone as far as the front door with him, and on the hall table
I saw four notes. They had certain characteristics in common. The
handwriting was almost unmistakably feminine; they all bore the words
"By hand, Urgent," and the only difference I could see was that one was
noticeably dirtier than the rest.
Their similarity gave me a curious feeling of seeing--not double but
quadruple.
Mary came out of the kitchen and caught me staring at them.
"Come by hand since lunch time," she volunteered. "All but one. I found
that in the box."
I nodded, gathered them up and took them into the study.
The first one ran thus.
DEAR MR. CLEMENT,
_Something has come to my knowledge which I feel you ought to know.
It concerns the death of poor Colonel Protheroe. I should much
appreciate your advice on the matter--whether to go to the police
or not. Since my dear husband's death, I have such a shrinking from
every kind of publicity. Perhaps you could run in and see me for a
few minutes this afternoon_,
_Yours sincerely_,
MARTHA PRICE RIDLEY.
I opened the second.
DEAR MR. CLEMENT,
_I am so troubled--so exercised in my mind--to know what I ought to
do. Something has come to my ears that I feel may be important. I
have such a horror of being mixed up with the police in any way. I
am so disturbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you,
dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve my doubts and
perplexities for me in the wonderful way you always do?_
_Forgive my troubling you,
Yours very sincerely_,
CAROLINE WETHERBY.
The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand.
DEAR MR. CLEMENT,
_Something most important has come to my ears. I feel you should
be the first to know about it. Will you call in and see me this
afternoon sometime? I will wait in for you._
This militant epistle was signed
AMANDA HARTNELL.
I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubled
with very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, the
meanest and cruelest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It
purported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things
inclined me to disbelieve that assumption.
DEAR VICAR,
i think you ought to know what is Going On. Your lady has been seen
coming out of Mr. Redding's cottage in a surreptitious manner. You
know wot i mean. The two are Carrying On together. i think you
ought to know.
A FRIEND.
I made a faint exclamation of disgust and, crumpling up the paper,
tossed it into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room.
"What's that you're throwing down so contemptuously?" she asked.
"Filth," I said.
Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda,
however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up the
crumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her.
She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back
to me, turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn.
Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking out
into the garden.
"Len," she said without turning round.
"Yes, my dear."
"I'd like to tell you something. Yes, don't stop me. I want to, please.
When--when Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had only
known him slightly before. That wasn't true. I--I had known him rather
well. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him.
I think most people are with Lawrence. I was--well--absolutely silly
about him at one time. I don't mean I wrote him compromising letters or
anything idiotic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him
once."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.
"Oh! Because! I don't know exactly except that--well, you're foolish
in some ways. Just because you're so much older than I am, you think
that I--well, that I'm likely to like other people. I thought you'd be
tiresome, perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends."
"You're very clever at concealing things," I said, remembering what
she had told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous
natural way she had talked.
"Yes, I've always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it."
Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure in it.
"But it's quite true what I said. I didn't know about Anne, and I
wondered why Lawrence was so different, not--well, really not noticing
me. I'm not used to it."
There was a pause.
"You do understand, Len?" said Griselda anxiously.
"Yes," I said. "I understand."
But did I?