I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous
letter. Pitch soils. However, I gathered up the other three letters,
glanced at my watch and started out.
I wondered very much what this might be that had "come to the
knowledge" of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same
piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at
fault.
I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feet
gravitated there of their own accord. I was anxious to know whether
Inspector Slack had returned from Old Hall.
I found that he had and, further, that Miss Cram had returned with him.
The fair Gladys was seated in the police station carrying off matters
with a high hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to
the woods.
"Just because one of these gossiping old cats has nothing better to do
than look out of her window all night, you go and pitch upon me. She's
been mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end of
the lane on the afternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then,
in daylight, how can she possibly have recognized me by moonlight?
"Wicked, it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything,
they will. And me asleep in my bed as innocent as can be. You ought to
be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you."
"And supposing the landlady of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase as
yours, Miss Cram?"
"If she says anything of the kind, she's wrong. There's no name on it.
Nearly everybody's got a suitcase like that. As for poor Dr. Stone,
accusing him of being a common burglar! And he with a lot of letters
after his name."
"You refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?"
"No refusing about it. You've made a mistake, that's all. You and your
meddlesome Marples. I won't say a word more--not without my solicitor
present. I'm going this minute--unless you're going to arrest me."
For answer, the Inspector rose and opened the door for her, and, with a
toss of the head, Miss Cram walked out.
"That's the line she takes," said Slack, coming back to his chair.
"Absolute denial. And of course the old lady _may_ have been mistaken.
No jury would believe you could recognize anyone from that distance on
a moonlit night. And of course, as I say, the old lady may have made a
mistake."
"She may," I said, "but I don't think she did. Miss Marple is usually
right. That's what makes her unpopular."
The Inspector grinned.
"That's what Hurst says. Lord, these villages!"
"What about the silver, Inspector?"
"Seemed to be perfectly in order. Of course that meant one lot or
the other must be a fake. There's a very good man in Much Benham,
an authority on old silver. I've phoned over to him and sent a car
to fetch him. We'll soon know which is which. Either the burglary
was an accomplished fact, or else it was only planned. Doesn't make
a frightful lot of difference either way--I mean as far as we're
concerned. Robbery's a small business compared with murder. These two
aren't concerned with the murder. We'll maybe get a line on him through
the girl--that's why I let her go without any more fuss."
"I wondered," I said.
"A pity about Mr. Redding. It's not often you find a man who goes out
of his way to oblige you."
"I suppose not," I said smiling slightly.
"Women cause a lot of trouble," moralized the Inspector.
He sighed and then went on, somewhat to my surprise, "Of course there's
Archer."
"Oh!" I said. "You've thought of him?"
"Why, naturally, sir, first thing. It didn't need any anonymous letters
to put me on his track."
"Anonymous letters," I said sharply. "Did you get one then?"
"That's nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh! yes, we
were put wise to Archer. As though the police couldn't look out for
themselves! Archer's been under suspicion from the first. The trouble
of it is, he's got an alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but it's
awkward to get over."
"What do you mean by its not amounting to anything?" I asked.
"Well, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not,
as I say, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would
swear to anything. There's no believing a word they say. _We_ know
that. But the public doesn't, and the jury's taken from the public,
more's the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything
that's said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And
of course Archer himself will swear till he's black in the face that he
didn't do it."
"Not so obliging as Mr. Redding," I said with a smile.
"Not he," said the Inspector, making the remark as a plain statement of
fact.
"It is natural, I suppose, to cling to life," I mused.
"You'd be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off through
the soft heartedness of the jury," said the Inspector gloomily.
"But do you really think that Archer did it?" I asked.
It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems
to have any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or
difficulty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to
appeal to him.
"I'd like to be a bit surer," he admitted. "A fingerprint now, or a
footprint, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Can't
risk arresting him without something of that kind. He's been seen
round Mr. Redding's house once or twice, but he'd say that was to speak
to his mother. A decent body, she is. No, on the whole, I'm for the
lady. If I could only get definite proof of blackmail--but you can't
get definite proof of anything in this crime! It's theory, theory,
theory. It's a sad pity that there's not a single spinster lady living
along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet she'd have seen something if there
had been."
His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It was
about the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.
My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching for me
from the window, for, before I had time to ring, she had opened the
front door, and clasping my hand firmly in hers had led me over the
threshold.
"So good of you to come. In here. More private."
We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop. Miss
Hartnell shut the door and, with an air of deep secrecy, waved me to a
seat (there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.
"I'm never one to beat about the bush," she said in her jolly voice,
the latter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the
situation. "You know how things go the round in a village like this?"
"Unfortunately," I said, "I do."
"I agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it
is. I thought it my duty to tell the police Inspector that I'd called
on Mrs. Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I
don't expect to be thanked for doing my duty; I just do it. Ingratitude
is what you meet with first and last in this life. Why only yesterday
that impudent Mrs. Baker--"
"Yes, yes," I said hoping to avert the usual tirade. "Very sad, very
sad. But you were saying."
"The lower classes don't know who are their best friends," said Miss
Hartnell. "I always say a word in season when I'm visiting. Not that
I'm ever thanked for it."
"You were telling the Inspector about your call upon Mrs. Lestrange," I
prompted.
"Exactly--and, by the way, he didn't thank me. Said he'd ask for
information when he wanted it--not those words exactly, but that was
the spirit. There's a different class of men in the police force
nowadays."
"Very probably," I said. "But you were going on to say something?"
"I decided that this time I wouldn't go near any wretched Inspector.
After all, a clergyman is a gentleman--at least some are," she added.
I gathered that the qualification was not intended to include me.
"If I can help you in any way," I began.
"It's a matter of duty," said Miss Hartnell and closed her mouth with a
snap. "I don't want to have to say these things. No one likes it less.
But duty is duty."
I waited.
"I've been given to understand," went on Miss Hartnell, turning rather
red, "that Mrs. Lestrange gives out that she was at home all the
time--that she didn't answer the door because--well, because she didn't
choose. Such airs and graces. I only called as a matter of duty, and to
be treated like that!"
"She has been ill," I said mildly.
"Ill? Fiddlesticks. You're too unworldly, Mr. Clement. There's nothing
the matter with that woman. Too ill to attend the inquest indeed!
Medical certificate from Dr. Haydock! She can wind him round her little
finger; everyone knows that. Well, where was I?"
I didn't quite know. It is difficult with Miss Hartnell to know where
narrative ends and vituperation begins.
"Oh! about calling on her that afternoon. Well, it's fiddlesticks to
say she was in the house. She wasn't. I know."
"How can you possibly know?"
Miss Hartnell's face turned a little redder. In someone less truculent,
her demeanour might have been called embarrassed.
"I'd knocked and rung," she explained. "Twice. If not three times. And
it occurred to me suddenly that the bell might be out of order."
She was, I was glad to note, unable to look me in the face when saying
this. The same builder builds all our houses, and the bells he installs
are always clearly audible when standing on the mat outside the front
door. Both Miss Hartnell and I knew this perfectly well, but I suppose
decencies have to be preserved.
"Yes?" I murmured.
"I didn't want to push my card through the letter box. That would seem
so rude, and, whatever I am, I am never rude."
She made this amazing statement without a tremor.
"So I thought I would just go round the house and--and tap on the
window pane," she continued unblushingly. "I went all round the house
and looked in at all the windows, but there was no one in the house at
all."
I understood her perfectly. Taking advantage of the fact that the house
was empty, Miss Hartnell had given unbridled rein to her curiosity and
had gone round the house, examining the garden and peering in at all
the windows to see as much as she could of the interior. She had chosen
to tell her story to me, believing that I should be a more sympathetic
and lenient audience than the police. The clergy are supposed to give
the benefit of the doubt to their parishioners.
I made no comment on the situation. I merely asked a question:
"What time was this, Miss Hartnell?"
"As far as I can remember," said Miss Hartnell, "it must have been
close on six o'clock. I went straight home afterwards, and I got in
about ten past six, and Mrs. Protheroe came in somewhere round about
the half hour, leaving Dr. Stone and Mr. Redding outside, and we talked
about bulbs. And all the time the poor Colonel lying murdered. It's a
sad world."
"It is sometimes a rather unpleasant one," I said.
I rose.
"And that is all you have to tell me?"
"I just thought it might be important."
"It might," I agreed.
And refusing to be drawn further, much to Miss Hartnell's
disappointment, I took my leave.
Miss Wetherby, whom I visited next, received me in a kind of flutter.
"Dear Vicar, how truly kind. You've had tea? Really, you won't? A
cushion for your back? It is so kind of you to come round so promptly.
Always willing to put yourself out for others."
There was a good deal of this before we came to the point, and even
then it was approached with a good deal of circumlocution.
"You must understand that I heard this on the best authority."
In St. Mary Mead, the best authority is always somebody else's servant.
"You can't tell me who told you?"
"I promised, dear Mr. Clement. And I always think a promise should be a
sacred thing."
She looked very solemn.
"Shall we say a little bird told me? That is safe, isn't it?"
I longed to say, "It's damned silly." I rather wish I had. I should
have liked to observe the effect on Miss Wetherby.
"Well, this little bird told that she saw a certain lady who shall be
nameless."
"Another kind of bird?" I inquired.
To my great surprise Miss Wetherby went off into paroxysms of laughter
and tapped me playfully on the arm saying:
"Oh! Vicar, you must not be so naughty."
When she had recovered, she went on.
"A certain lady, and where do you think this certain lady was going?
She turned into the Vicarage road, but before she did so, she looked
up and down the road in a most peculiar way--to see if anyone she knew
were noticing her, I imagine."
"And the little bird?" I inquired.
"Paying a visit to the fishmonger's--in the room over the shop."
I now know where maids go on their days out. I know there is one place
they never go if they can help--anywhere in the open air.
"And the time," continued Miss Wetherby, leaning forward mysteriously,
"was just before six o'clock."
"On which day?"
Miss Wetherby gave a little scream.
"The day of the murder, of course, didn't I say so?"
"I inferred it," I replied. "And the name of the lady?"
"Begins with an L," said Miss Wetherby nodding her head several times.
Feeling that I had got to the end of the information Miss Wetherby had
to impart, I rose to my feet.
"You won't let the police cross-question me, will you?" said Miss
Wetherby pathetically, as she clasped my hand in both of hers. "I do
shrink from publicity. And to stand up in Court!"
"In special cases," I said, "they let witnesses sit down."
And I escaped.
There was still Mrs. Price Ridley to see. That lady put me in my place
at once.
"I will not be mixed up in any police court business," she said firmly,
after shaking my hand coldly. "You understand that. On the other hand,
having come across a circumstance which needs explaining, I think it
should be brought to the notice of the authorities."
"Does it concern Mrs. Lestrange?" I asked.
"Why should it?" demanded Mrs. Price Ridley coldly.
She had me at a disadvantage there.
"It's a very simple matter," she continued. "My maid, Clara, was
standing at the front gate; she went down there for a minute or
two--_she_ says to get a breath of fresh air. Most unlikely, I should
say. Much more probable that she was looking out for the fishmonger's
boy--if he calls himself a boy--impudent young jackanapes, thinks
because he's seventeen he can joke with all the girls. Anyway, as I
say, she was standing at the gate and she heard a sneeze."
"Yes," I said waiting for more.
"That's all. I tell you she heard a sneeze. And don't start telling me
I'm not so young as I once was and may have made a mistake, because it
was Clara who heard it and she's only nineteen."
"But," I said, "why shouldn't she have heard a sneeze?"
Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me in obvious pity for my poorness of
intellect.
"She heard a sneeze on the day of the murder at a time when there was
no one in your house. Doubtless the murderer was concealed in the
bushes waiting his opportunity. What you have to look for is a man with
a cold in his head."
"Or a sufferer from hay fever," I suggested. "But as a matter of fact,
Mrs. Price Ridley, I think that mystery has a very easy solution. Our
maid, Mary, has been suffering from a severe cold in the head. In fact,
her sniffing has tried us very much lately. It must have been her
sneeze your maid heard."
"It was a man's sneeze," said Mrs. Price Ridley firmly. "And you
couldn't hear your maid sneeze in your kitchen from our gate."
"You couldn't hear anyone sneezing in the study from your gate," I
said. "Or at least I very much doubt it."
"I said the man might have been concealed in the shrubbery," said
Mrs. Price Ridley. "Doubtless when Clara had gone in, he effected an
entrance by the front door."
"Well, of course that's possible," I said.
I tried not to make my voice consciously soothing, but I must have
failed, for Mrs. Price Ridley glared at me suddenly.
"I am accustomed not to be listened to, but I might mention also that
to leave a tennis racquet carelessly flung down on the grass without
a press completely ruins it. And tennis racquets are very expensive
nowadays."
There did not seem to be rhyme or reason in this flank attack. It
bewildered me utterly.
"But perhaps you don't agree," said Mrs. Price Ridley.
"Oh! I do--certainly."
"I am glad. Well, that is all I have to say. I wash my hands of the
whole affair."
She leaned back and closed her eyes like one weary of this world. I
thanked her and said good-bye.
On the doorstep, I ventured to ask Clara about her mistress's statement.
"It's quite true, sir, I heard a sneeze. And it wasn't an ordinary
sneeze--not by any means."
Nothing about a crime is ever ordinary. The shot was not an ordinary
kind of shot. The sneeze was not a usual kind of sneeze. It was, I
presume, a special murderer's sneeze. I asked the girl what time this
had been, but she was very vague--some time between a quarter and half
past six she thought. Anyway, "it was before the mistress had the
telephone call and was took bad."
I asked her if she had heard a shot of any kind. And she said the shots
had been something awful. After that, I placed very little credence in
her statements.
I was just turning in at my own gate when I decided to pay a friend a
visit.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had just time for it before taking
Evensong. I went down the road to Haydock's house. He came out on the
doorstep to meet me.
I noticed afresh how worried and haggard he looked. This business
seemed to have aged him out of all knowledge.
"I'm glad to see you," he said. "What's the news?"
I told him the latest Stone development.
"A high class thief," he commented. "Well, that explains a lot of
things. He'd read up his subject, but he made slips from time to time
to me. Protheroe must have caught him out once. You remember the row
they had. What do they think about the girl? Is she in it too?"
"Opinion as to that is undecided," I said. "For my own part, I think
the girl is all right. She's such a prize idiot," I added.
"Oh! I wouldn't say that. She's rather shrewd, is Miss Gladys Cram.
A remarkably healthy specimen. Not likely to trouble members of my
profession."
I told him that I was worried about Hawes, and that I was anxious that
he should get away for a real rest and change.
Something evasive came into his manner when I said this. His answer did
not ring quite true.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose that would be the best thing. Poor
chap. Poor chap."
"I thought you didn't like him."
"I don't--not much. But I'm sorry for a lot of people I don't like."
He added, after a minute or two, "I'm even sorry for Protheroe. Poor
fellow--nobody ever liked him much. Too full of his own rectitude
and too self-assertive. It's an unlovable mixture. He was always the
same--even as a young man."
"I didn't know you knew him then?"
"Oh! yes. When he lived in Westmoreland, I had a practice not far away.
That's a long time ago now. Nearly twenty years."
I sighed. Twenty years ago Griselda was five years old. Time is an odd
thing.
"Is that all you came to say to me, Clement?"
I looked up with a start. Haydock was watching me with keen eyes.
"There's something else, isn't there?" he said.
I nodded.
I had been uncertain whether to speak or not when I came in, but now
I decided to do so. I like Haydock as well as any man I know. He is a
splendid fellow in every way. I felt that what I had to tell might be
useful to him.
I recited my interviews with Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby.
He was silent for a long time after I'd spoken.
"It's quite true, Clement," he said at last. "I've been trying to
shield Mrs. Lestrange from any inconvenience that I could. As a matter
of fact, she's an old friend. But that's not my only reason. That
medical certificate of mine isn't the put-up job you all think it was."
He paused and then said gravely:
"This is between you and me, Clement. Mrs. Lestrange is doomed."
"What?"
"She's a dying woman. I give her a month at longest. Do you wonder
that I want to keep her from being badgered and questioned?"
He went on:
"When she turned into this road that evening, it was here she came--to
this house."
"You haven't said so before."
"I didn't want to create talk. Six to seven isn't my time for seeing
patients, and everyone knows that. But you can take my word for it that
she was here."
"She wasn't here when I came for you, though. I mean when we discovered
the body."
"No," he seemed perturbed. "She'd left--to keep an appointment."
"In what direction was the appointment? In her own house?"
"I don't know, Clement. On my honour, I don't know."
I believed him, but--
"And supposing an innocent man is hanged?" I said.
He shook his head.
"No," he said. "No one will be hanged for the murder of Colonel
Protheroe. You can take my word for that."
But that is just what I could not do. And yet the certainty in his
voice was very great.
"No one will be hanged," he repeated.
"This man, Archer--"
He made an impatient movement.
"Hasn't got brains enough to wipe his finger prints off the pistol."
"Perhaps not," I said dubiously.
Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal I
had found in the wood from my pocket I held it out to him and asked him
what it was.
"H'm," he hesitated. "Looks like picric acid. Where did you find it?"
"That," I replied, "is Sherlock Holmes' secret."
He smiled.
"What is picric acid?"
"Well, it's an explosive."
"Yes, I know that, but it's got another use, hasn't it?"
He nodded.
"It's used medically--in solution for burns. Wonderful stuff."
I held out my hand and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me.
"It's of no consequence probably," I said. "But I found it in rather an
unusual place."
"You won't tell me where?"
Rather childishly, I wouldn't.
He had his secrets. Well, I would have mine.
I was a little hurt that he had not confided in me more fully.