I was in a strange mood when I mounted the pulpit that night.
The church was unusually full. I cannot believe that it was the
prospect of Hawes preaching which had attracted so many. Hawes' sermons
are dull and dogmatic. And if the news had got round that I was
preaching instead, that would not have attracted them either. For my
sermons are dull and scholarly. Neither, I am afraid, can I attribute
it to devotion.
Everybody had come, I concluded, to see who else was there, and
possibly to exchange a little gossip in the church porch afterwards.
Haydock was in church, which is unusual, and also Lawrence Redding.
And, to my surprise, beside Lawrence I saw the white strained face
of Hawes. Anne Protheroe was there, but she usually attends Evensong
on Sundays, though I had hardly thought she would today. I was far
more surprised to see Lettice. Church-going was compulsory on Sunday
morning--Colonel Protheroe was adamant on that point--but I had never
seen Lettice at evening service before.
Gladys Cram was there, looking rather blatantly young and healthy
against a background of wizened spinsters, and I fancied that a dim
figure at the end of the church, who had slipped in late, was Mrs.
Lestrange.
I need hardly say that Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby
and Miss Marple were there in full force. All the village people were
there, with hardly a single exception. I don't know when we have had
such a crowded congregation.
Crowds are queer things. There was a magnetic atmosphere that night,
and the first person to feel its influence was myself.
As a rule, I prepare my sermons beforehand. I am careful and
conscientious over them, but no one is better aware than myself of
their deficiencies.
Tonight I was of necessity preaching _ex tempore_, and as I looked down
on the sea of upturned faces, a sudden madness entered my brain. I
ceased to be in any sense a minister of God. I became an actor. I had
an audience before me and I wanted to move that audience--and more, I
felt the power to move it.
I am not proud of what I did that night. I am an utter disbeliever in
the emotional revivalist spirit. Yet that night I acted the part of a
raving, ranting evangelist.
I gave out my text slowly.
_I am come to call not the righteous but the sinners to repentance._
I repeated it twice, and I heard my own voice, a resonant, ringing
voice unlike the voice of the everyday Leonard Clement.
I saw Griselda from her front pew look up in surprise, and Dennis
follow her example.
I held my breath for a moment or two, and then I let myself rip.
The congregation in that church were in a state of pent-up emotion,
ripe to be played upon. I played upon them. I exhorted sinners to
repentance. I lashed myself into a kind of emotional frenzy. Again and
again I threw out a denouncing hand and reiterated the phrase:
"I am speaking to _you_."
And each time, from different parts of the church, a kind of sighing
gasp went up.
Mass emotion is a strange and terrible thing.
I finished up with those beautiful and poignant words--perhaps the most
poignant words in the whole Bible:
"_This very night shall thy soul be required of thee...._"
It was a strange brief possession. When I got back to the Vicarage I
was my usual faded, indeterminate self. I found Griselda rather pale.
She slipped her arm through mine.
"Len," she said. "You were rather terrible tonight. I--I didn't like
it. I've never heard you preach like that before."
"I don't suppose you ever will again," I said, sinking down wearily on
the sofa. I was tired.
"What made you do it?"
"A sudden madness came over me."
"Oh! it--it wasn't something special?"
"What do you mean--something special?"
"I wondered--that was all. You're very unexpected, Len. I never feel I
really know you."
We sat down to cold supper, Mary being out.
"There's a note for you in the hall," said Griselda. "Get it, will you,
Dennis?"
Dennis, who had been very silent, obeyed.
I took it and groaned. Across the top left-hand corner was written, _By
hand--Urgent_.
"This," I said, "must be from Miss Marple. There's no one else left."
I had been perfectly correct in my assumption.
DEAR MR. CLEMENT,
_I should so much like to have a little chat with you about one or
two things that have occurred to me. I feel we should all try and
help in elucidating this sad mystery. I will come over about half
past nine, if I may, and tap on your study window. Perhaps dear
Griselda would be so very kind as to run over here and cheer up my
nephew. And Mr. Dennis too, of course, if he cares to come. If I do
not hear, I will expect them and will come over myself at the time
I have stated._
_Yours very sincerely_,
JANE MARPLE.
I handed the note to Griselda.
"Oh! we'll go," she said cheerfully. "A glass or two of homemade
liqueur is just what one needs on Sunday evening. I think it's Mary's
blanc mange that is so frightfully depressing. It's like something out
of a mortuary."
Dennis seemed less charmed at the prospect.
"It's all very well for you," he grumbled. "You can talk all this high
brow stuff about art and books. I always feel a perfect fool sitting
and listening to you."
"That's good for you," said Griselda serenely. "It puts you in your
place. Anyway I don't think Mr. Raymond West is so frightfully clever
as he pretends to be."
"Very few of us are," I said.
I wondered very much what exactly it was that Miss Marple wished to
talk over. Of all the ladies in my congregation, I consider her by far
the shrewdest. Not only does she see and hear practically everything
that goes on, but she draws amazingly neat and apposite deductions from
the facts that come under her notice.
If I were at any time to set out on a career of deceit, it would be of
Miss Marple that I should be afraid.
What Griselda called the Nephew Amusing Party started off at a little
after nine, and while I was waiting for Miss Marple to arrive I amused
myself by drawing up a kind of schedule of the facts connected with the
crime. I arranged them so far as possible in chronological order. I am
not a punctual person, but I am a neat one, and I like things jotted
down in a methodical fashion.
At half past nine punctually, there was a little tap on the window and
I rose and admitted Miss Marple.
She had a very fine Shetland shawl thrown over her head and shoulders,
and was looking rather old and frail. She came in full of little
fluttering remarks.
"So good of you to let me come--and so good of dear Griselda--Raymond
admires her so much--the perfect Greuze he always calls her. Shall I
sit here? I am not taking your chair? Oh! thank you. No, I won't have a
footstool."
I deposited the Shetland shawl on a chair and returned to take a chair
facing my guest. We looked at each other, and a little deprecating
smile broke out on her face.
"I feel that you must be wondering why--why I am so interested in all
this. You may possibly think it's very unwomanly. No--please--I should
like to explain if I may."
She paused a moment, a pink colour suffusing her cheeks.
"You see," she began at last, "living alone as I do, in a rather out
of the way part of the world, one has to have a hobby. There is,
of course, woolwork, and Guides, and Welfare, and sketching, but
my hobby is--and always has been--Human Nature. So varied--and so
very fascinating. And, of course, in a small village, with nothing
to distract one, one has such ample opportunity for becoming what I
might call proficient in one's study. One begins to class people,
quite definitely, just as though they were birds or flowers, group
so and so, genus this, species that. Sometimes, of course, one makes
mistakes, but less and less as time goes on. And then, too, one tests
oneself. One takes a little problem--for instance the gill of pickled
shrimps that amused dear Griselda so much--a quite unimportant mystery,
but absolutely incomprehensible unless one solves it right. And then
there was that matter of the changed cough drops, and the butcher's
wife's umbrella--the last absolutely meaningless, unless on the
assumption that the greengrocer was not behaving at all nicely with
the chemist's wife--which, of course, turned out to be the case. It is
so fascinating, you know, to apply one's judgment and find that one is
right."
"You usually are, I believe," I said smiling.
"That, I am afraid, is what has made me a little conceited," confessed
Miss Marple. "But I have always wondered whether, if some day a really
big mystery came along, I should be able to do the same thing. I
mean--just solve it correctly. Logically, it ought to be exactly the
same thing. After all, a tiny working model of a torpedo is just the
same as a real torpedo."
"You mean it's all a question of relativity," I said slowly. "It should
be--logically, I admit. But I don't know whether it really is."
"Surely it must be the same," said Miss Marple. "The--what one used
to call the factors at school--are the same. There's money, and
mutual attraction between people of an--er--opposite sex--and there's
queerness, of course--so many people are a little queer, aren't
they?--in fact, most people are when you know them well. And normal
people do such astonishing things sometimes, and abnormal people are
sometimes so very sane and ordinary. In fact, the only way is to
compare people with other people you have known or come across. You'd
be surprised if you knew how very few distinct types there are in all."
"You frighten me," I said. "I feel I'm being put under the microscope."
"Of course, I wouldn't dream of saying any of this to Colonel
Melchett--such an autocratic man, isn't he?--and poor Inspector
Slack--well, he's exactly like the young lady in the boot shop who
wants to sell you patent leather because she's got it in your size, and
doesn't take any notice of the fact that you want brown calf."
That really is a very good description of Slack.
"But you, Mr. Clement, know, I'm sure, quite as much about the crime as
Inspector Slack. I thought, if we could work together--"
"I wonder," I said. "I think each one of us in his secret heart fancies
himself as Sherlock Holmes."
Then I told her of the three summons I had received that afternoon.
I told her of Anne's discovery of the picture with the slashed face.
I also told her of Miss Cram's attitude at the police station, and I
described Haydock's identification of the crystal I had picked up.
"Having found that myself," I finished up, "I should like it to be
important. But it's probably got nothing to do with the case."
"I have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the
library lately," said Miss Marple, "hoping to find them helpful."
"Was there anything in them about picric acid?"
"I'm afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which a
man was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as an
ointment."
"But as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesn't seem to enter into
the question," I said.
Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.
"I've tried," I said, "to recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly
as possible."
MY SCHEDULE
THURSDAY 21ST. INST.
12.30 p.m. _Colonel Protheroe alters his appointment from six to
six fifteen. Overheard by half village very probably._
12.45. _Pistol last seen in its proper place. (But this is doubtful
as Mrs. Archer had previously said she could not remember.)_
5.30. _(approx.) Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe leave Old Hall for
village in car._
5.30. _Fake call put through to me from the North Lodge, Old Hall._
6.15. _(or a minute or two earlier) Colonel Protheroe arrives at
Vicarage. Is shown into study by Mary._
6.20. _Mrs. Protheroe comes along back lane and across garden to
study window. Colonel Protheroe not visible._
6.29. _Call from Lawrence Redding's cottage put through to Mrs.
Price Ridley (according to exchange)._
6.30-6.35. _Shot heard (accepting telephone call time as correct).
Lawrence Redding, Anne Protheroe, and Dr. Stone's evidence seem to
point to its being earlier, but Mrs. P. R. probably right._
6.45. _Lawrence Redding arrives Vicarage and finds the body._
6.48. _I meet Lawrence Redding._
6.49. _Body discovered by me._
6.55. _Haydock examines body._
_Note_ The only two people who have no kind of alibi for 6.30-6.35
are Miss Cram and Mrs. Lestrange. Miss Cram says she was at the
barrow, but no confirmation. It seems reasonable, however, to
dismiss her from case, as there seems nothing to connect her with
it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr. Haydock's house some time after six to
keep an appointment. Where was the appointment, and with whom? It
could hardly have been with Colonel Protheroe, as he expected to be
engaged with me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange was near the spot
at the time the crime was committed, but it seems doubtful what
motive she could have had for murdering him. She did not gain by
his death, and the Inspector's theory of blackmail I cannot accept.
Mrs. Lestrange is not that kind of woman. Also, it seems unlikely
that she should have got hold of Lawrence Redding's pistol.
"Very clear," said Miss Marple nodding her head in approval. "Very
clear, indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda."
"You agree with what I have written?" I asked.
"Oh! yes--you have put it all beautifully."
I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.
"Miss Marple," I said. "Who do you suspect? You once said that there
were seven people."
"Quite that, I should think," said Miss Marple absently. "I expect
every one of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they
do."
She didn't ask me whom I suspected.
"The point is," she said, "that one must provide an explanation for
everything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If
you have a theory that fits every fact--well, then it must be the right
one. But that's extremely difficult. If it wasn't for that note--"
"The note?" I said surprised.
"Yes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along.
It's wrong, somehow."
"Surely," I said, "that is explained now. It was written at 6.35, and
another hand--the murderer's--put the misleading 6.20 at the top. I
think that is clearly established."
"But even then," said Miss Marple, "it's all wrong."
"But why?"
"Listen--" Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. "Mrs. Protheroe passed my
garden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and she
looked in and she didn't see Colonel Protheroe."
"Because he was writing at the desk," I said.
"And that's what's all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreed
that he wouldn't sit down to say he couldn't wait any longer until
after half past six--so, why was he sitting at the writing table then?"
"I never thought of that," I said slowly.
"Let us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes
to the window and she thinks the room is empty--she must have thought
so, because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to
meet Mr. Redding. It wouldn't have been safe. The room must have been
absolutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three
alternatives, doesn't it?"
"You mean--"
"Well, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was dead
already--but I don't think that's the most likely one. To begin with,
he'd only been there about five minutes, and she or I would have heard
the shot; and, secondly, the same difficulty remains about his being at
the writing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was
sitting at the writing table writing a note, but in that case it must
have been a different note altogether. It can't have been to say he
couldn't wait. And the third--"
"Yes?" I said.
"Well, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that
the room was actually empty."
"You mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again and came
back later?"
"Yes."
"But why should he have done that?"
Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.
"That would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,"
I said.
"One so often has to do that--about everything. Don't you think so?"
I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three
alternatives that Miss Marple had suggested.
With a slight sigh, the old lady rose to her feet.
"I must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little
chat--though we haven't got very far, have we?"
"To tell you the truth," I said, as I fetched her shawl, "the whole
thing seems to me a bewildering maze."
"Oh! I wouldn't say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearly
everything. That is, if you admit one coincidence--and I think one
coincidence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely."
"Do you really think that? About the theory, I mean?" I asked looking
at her.
"I admit that there is one flaw in my theory--one fact that I can't get
over. Oh! if only that note had been something quite different--"
She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and
absent-mindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed
looking plant that stood in a stand.
"You know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poor
thing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I
suppose it is she who attends to it?"
"As much," I said, "as she attends to anything."
"A little raw at present," suggested Miss Marple.
"Yes," I said. "And Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to cook her.
Her idea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with
us. However, Mary herself gave us notice the other day."
"Indeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both."
"I haven't noticed it," I said. "But as a matter of fact, it was
Lettice Protheroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in
rather a temperamental state and found Lettice here and--well, they had
words."
"Oh!" said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the window
when she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passed
over her face.
"Oh! dear," she muttered to herself. "I _have_ been stupid. So that was
it! Perfectly possible all the time."
"I beg your pardon?"
She turned a worried face upon me.
"Nothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home and
think things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been
extremely stupid--almost incredibly so."
"I find that hard to believe," I said gallantly.
I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.
"Can you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?" I
asked.
"I would rather not--just at present. You see, there is still a
possibility that I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are
at my garden gate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any farther."
"Is the note still a stumbling block?" I asked as she passed through
the gate and latched it behind her.
She looked at me abstractedly.
"The note? Oh! of course that wasn't the real note. I never thought it
was. Good night, Mr. Clement."
She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.
I didn't know what to think.