We stared at her. I really think that for a moment or two we really
believed she was out of her mind. The accusation seemed so utterly
preposterous.
Colonel Melchett was the first to speak. He spoke kindly and with a
kind of pitying tolerance.
"That is absurd, Miss Marple," he said. "Young Redding has been
completely cleared."
"Naturally," said Miss Marple. "He saw to that."
"On the contrary," said Colonel Melchett drily, "he did his best to get
himself accused of the murder."
"Yes," said Miss Marple. "He took us all in that way--myself as much
as anyone else. You will remember, dear Mr. Clement, that I was quite
taken aback when I heard Mr. Redding had confessed to the crime. It
upset all my ideas and made me think him innocent--when up to then I
had felt convinced that he was guilty."
"Then it was Lawrence Redding you suspected?"
"I know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I
never find that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the
obvious that is true. Much as I have always liked Mrs. Protheroe, I
could not avoid coming to the conclusion that she was completely under
Mr. Redding's thumb and would do anything he told her, and of course
he is not the kind of young man who would dream of running away with a
penniless woman. From his point of view it was necessary that Colonel
Protheroe should be removed--and so he removed him. One of those
charming young men who have _no_ moral sense."
Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now he
broke out:
"Absolute nonsense--the whole thing! Redding's time is fully accounted
for up to 6.45, and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldn't have
been shot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or
do you suggest that Haydock is deliberately lying--the Lord knows why?"
"I think Dr. Haydock's evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very
upright man. And of course it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot
Colonel Protheroe--not Mr. Redding."
Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushed
back the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver a
gentle, old maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements
in the most natural way in the world.
"I have not thought it right to speak until now. One's own belief--even
so strong as to amount to knowledge--is not the same as proof. And
unless one has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I
was saying to dear Mr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance
it with any real conviction. And my own explanation was not quite
complete--it lacked just one thing--but suddenly, just as I was
leaving Mr. Clement's study, I noticed the palm in the pot by the
window--and--well--there the whole thing was: Clear as daylight!"
"Mad--quite mad," murmured Melchett to me.
But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle
ladylike voice.
"I was very sorry to believe what I did--very sorry. Because I liked
them both. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when
first he and then she both confessed in the most foolish way--well, I
was more relieved than I could say. I had been wrong. And I began to
think of other people who had a possible motive for wishing Colonel
Protheroe out of the way."
"The seven suspects!" I murmured.
She smiled at me.
"Yes, indeed. There was that man Archer--not likely, but primed with
drink (so inflaming) you never know. And of course there was your
Mary. She's been walking out with Archer a long time, and she's a
queer tempered girl. Motive _and_ opportunity--why, she was alone in
the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr.
Redding's house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was
Lettice--wanting freedom and money to do as she liked. I've known many
cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no
moral scruple--though, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of
them."
I winced.
"And then there was the tennis racquet," continued Miss Marple.
"The tennis racquet?"
"Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley's Clara saw lying on the grass by the
Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier
from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very
susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motive--for Lettice's
sake or for yours--it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was
poor Mr. Hawes and you--not both of you naturally, but alternatively,
as the lawyers say."
"Me?" I exclaimed in lively astonishment.
"Well, yes. I do apologize--and indeed I never really thought--but
there was the question of these disappearing sums of money. Either you
or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about
everywhere hinting that you were the person at fault--principally
because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the
matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawes--he
reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned--but all
the same one couldn't be absolutely _sure_--"
"Human nature being what it is," I ended grimly.
"Exactly. And then of course there was dear Griselda."
"But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it," interrupted Melchett. "She
returned by the 6.50 train."
"That's what she _said_," retorted Miss Marple. "One should never go
by what people say. The 6.50 was half an hour late that night. But at
a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall.
So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she
was seen--but perhaps you know that?"
She looked at me inquiringly.
Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous
letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail
that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding's cottage by the
back window at half past six on the fatal day.
I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had
for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms--past
intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming
to Protheroe's ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the
facts--and Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing
Protheroe. As I say--a nightmare only--but invested for a few long
minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.
I don't know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very
probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.
She handed me back the note with a little nod.
"That's been all over the village," she said. "And it did look rather
suspicious, didn't it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the
inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at
mid-day."
She paused a minute and then went on.
"But I'm wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say--and I
believe it my duty--is to put my own explanation of the mystery before
you. If you don't believe it--well, I shall have done my best. Even as
it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr.
Hawes his life."
Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different
note. It was less apologetic, more decided.
"This is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the
crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence
Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had
with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by
the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by
a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five-thirty,
Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the Vicar, adopting
a woman's voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).
"Mrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village.
And--a very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that
way)--Mrs. Protheroe took no handbag with her. Really a _most_ unusual
thing for a woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my
garden and stops and speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of
noticing that she has no weapon with her, and also that she is quite
her normal self. They realized, you see, that I am a noticing kind
of person. She disappears round the corner of the house to the study
window. The poor Colonel is sitting at the desk writing his letter to
you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pistol from the bowl,
where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him and shoots him through
the head, throws down the pistol and is out again like a flash, and
going down the garden to the studio. Nearly anyone would swear that
there couldn't have been time!"
"But the shot?" objected the Colonel. "You didn't hear the shot?"
"There is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I
gather from detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze
that the maid Clara heard might have actually been the shot? But no
matter. Mrs. Protheroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in
together--and--human nature being what it is--I'm afraid they realize
that I shan't leave the garden till they come out again!"
I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her
humorous perception of her own weakness.
"When they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. And there,
in reality, they make a mistake. Because if they had really said
good-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked
very different. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply
_dare_ not appear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are
careful to provide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe.
Finally Mr. Redding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he
dares. He probably saw you on the footpath from far away and was able
to time matters nicely. He picks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves
the forged letter with the time on it written in a different ink and
apparently in a different handwriting. When the forgery is discovered
it will look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate Anne Protheroe.
"But when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written
by Colonel Protheroe--something quite unexpected. And, being a very
intelligent young man, and seeing that this letter may come in very
useful to him, he takes it away with him. He alters the hands of the
clock to the same time as the letter--knowing that it is always kept
a quarter of an hour fast. The same idea--attempt to throw suspicion
on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves, meeting you outside the gate, and
acting the part of someone nearly distraught. As I say, he is really
most intelligent. What would a murderer who had committed a crime
try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So that is just what Mr.
Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, but marches into
the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ridiculous
self-accusation which takes everybody in."
There was something fascinating in Miss Marple's _résumé_ of the case.
She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that in this way and in
no other could the crime have been committed.
"What about the shot heard in the wood?" I asked. "Was that the
coincidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?"
"Oh! dear, no." Miss Marple shook her head briskly. "_That_ wasn't
a coincidence--very far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a
shot should be heard--otherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might
have continued. How Mr. Redding arranged it, I don't quite know. But
I understand that picric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it,
and you will remember, dear Vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying
a large stone just in the part of the wood where you picked up that
crystal later. Gentlemen are so clever at arranging things--the stone
suspended above the crystals and then a time fuse--or do I mean a
slow match? Something that would take about twenty minutes to burn
through--so that the explosion would come about 6.30 when he and Mrs.
Protheroe had come out of the studio and were in full view. A very
safe device because what would there be to find afterwards--only a big
stone! But even that he tried to remove--when you came upon him."
"I believe you are right," I exclaimed, remembering the start of
surprise Lawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed
natural enough at the time, but now--
Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her head
shrewdly.
"Yes," she said, "it must have been a very nasty shock for him to come
across you just then. But he turned it off very well--pretending he
was bringing it to me for my rock gardens. Only--" Miss Marple became
suddenly very emphatic. "_It was the wrong sort of stone for my rock
gardens!_ And that put me on the right track!"
All this time Colonel Melchett had sat like a man in a trance. Now he
showed signs of coming to. He snorted once or twice, blew his nose in a
bewildered fashion, and said:
"Upon my word! Well, upon my word!"
Beyond that, he did not commit himself. I think that he, like myself,
was impressed with the logical certainty of Miss Marple's conclusions.
But for the moment he was not willing to admit it.
Instead, he stretched out a hand, picked up the crumpled letter and
barked out:
"All very well. But how do you account for this fellow Hawes? Why, he
actually rang up and confessed."
"Yes--that was what was so Providential. The Vicar's sermon, doubtless.
You know, dear Mr. Clement, you really preached a most remarkable
sermon. It must have affected Mr. Hawes deeply. He could bear it no
longer, and felt he must confess--about the misappropriations of the
Church funds."
"What?"
"Yes--and that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I
hope and trust it _is_ saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the
matter, Mr. Redding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect
he hid it in some safe place) and waited till he found out for certain
to whom it referred. He soon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes.
I understand he came back here with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a
long time with him. I suspect that he then substituted a cachet of his
own for one of Mr. Hawes, and slipped this letter in the pocket of Mr.
Hawes' dressing gown. The poor young man would swallow the fatal cachet
in all innocence--after his death his things would be gone through and
the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclusion that he had
shot Colonel Protheroe and taken his own life out of remorse. I rather
fancy Mr. Hawes must have found that letter tonight just after taking
the fatal cachet. In his disordered state, it must have seemed like
something supernatural, and, coming on top of the Vicar's sermon, it
must have impelled him to confess the whole thing."
"Upon my word," said Colonel Melchett. "Upon my word! _Most_
extraordinary! I--I--don't believe a word of it."
He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. It must
have sounded so in his own ears for he went on:
"And can you explain the other telephone call--the one from Mr.
Redding's cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?"
"Ah!" said Miss Marple. "That is what I call the coincidence. Dear
Griselda sent that call--she and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy.
They had heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about
the Vicar, and they thought of this (perhaps rather childish) way of
silencing her. The coincidence lies in the fact that the call should
have been put through at exactly the same time as the fake shot from
the wood. It led one to believe that the two must be connected."
I suddenly remembered how everyone who spoke of that shot had described
it as "different" from the usual shot. They had been right. Yet how
hard to explain just in what way the "difference" of the shot consisted.
Colonel Melchett cleared his throat.
"Your solution is a very plausible one, Miss Marple," he said. "But you
will allow me to point out that there is not a shadow of proof."
"I know," said Miss Marple. "But you believe it to be true, don't you?"
There was a pause, then the Colonel said almost reluctantly:
"Yes, I do. Dash it all, it's the only way the thing could have
happened. But there's no proof--not an atom."
Miss Marple coughed.
"That is why I thought perhaps--under the circumstances--"
"Yes?"
"A little trap might be permissible."