Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most
natural thing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss
Marple and fetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken
up with our preoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten
anybody existed in the world except ourselves.
I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not even now
go over and join them, when the door bell rang.
I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box and,
presuming that this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.
As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter
hastily into my pocket and opened the front door.
It was Colonel Melchett.
"Hullo, Clement. I'm on my way home from town in the car. Thought I'd
just look in and see if you could give me a drink."
"Delighted," I said. "Come into the study."
He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me into
the study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett
was standing in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his
closely clipped moustache.
"I've got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing
you've ever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going
down here? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?"
"They're not doing so badly," I said. "One of them, at all events,
thinks she's got there."
"Our friend, Miss Marple, eh?"
"Our friend Miss Marple."
"Women like that always think they know everything," said Colonel
Melchett.
He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.
"It's probably unnecessary interference on my part asking," I said,
"but I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the
murderer left by the front door, there's a chance the boy may have seen
him."
"Slack questioned him right enough," said Melchett, "but the boy says
he didn't meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldn't
be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He
would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to
call at the Vicarage, at Haydock's and at Mrs. Price Ridley's. Easy
enough to dodge him."
"Yes," I said. "I suppose it would be."
"On the other hand," went on Melchett, "if by any chance that rascal
Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I
doubt very much whether he'd let on. Archer is a cousin of his."
"Do you seriously suspect Archer?"
"Well, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly.
Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasn't Protheroe's strong
point."
"No," I said. "He was a very ruthless man."
"What I say is," said Melchett, "live and let live. Of course, the
law's the law, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the
doubt. That's what Protheroe never did."
"He prided himself on it," I said.
There was a pause and then I asked:
"What is this 'astounding bit of news' you promised me?"
"Well, it _is_ astounding. You know that unfinished letter that
Protheroe was writing when he was killed?"
"Yes."
"We got an expert on it--to say whether the 6.20 was added by
a different hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroe's
handwriting. And do you know the verdict? _That letter was never
written by Protheroe at all._"
"You mean a forgery?"
"It's a forgery. The 6.20 they think is written in a different hand
again--but they're not sure about that. The heading is in a different
ink, but the letter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it."
"Are they certain?"
"Well, they're as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expert
is! Oh! but they're sure enough."
"Amazing," I said.
Then a memory assailed me.
"Why," I said, "I remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasn't
like her husband's handwriting at all, and I took no notice."
"Really?"
"I thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If there
seemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written that
note."
We looked at each other.
"It's curious," I said slowly. "Miss Marple was saying this evening
that that note was all wrong."
"Confound the woman, she couldn't know more about it if she had
committed the murder herself."
At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of
psychology about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a
kind of sinister significance.
I went over and took up the receiver.
"This is the Vicarage," I said. "Who's speaking?"
A strange high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire.
"_I want to confess_," it said. "_My God, I want to confess._"
"Hullo," I said. "Hullo. Look here, you've cut me off. What number was
that?"
A languid voice said it didn't know. It added that it was sorry I had
been troubled.
I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.
"You once said," I remarked, "that you would go mad if anyone else
accused themselves of the crime."
"What about it?"
"That was someone who wanted to confess ... and the exchange has cut us
off."
Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.
"I'll speak to them."
"Do," I said. "You may have some effect. I'll leave you to it. I'm
going out. I've a fancy I recognized that voice."