There is little more to be told. Miss Marple's plan succeeded. Lawrence
Redding was not an innocent man, and the hint of a witness of the
change of capsule did indeed cause him to do "something foolish." Such
is the power of an evil conscience.
He was, of course, peculiarly placed. His first impulse, I imagine,
must have been to cut and run. But there was his accomplice to
consider. He could not leave without getting word to her, and he dared
not wait till morning. So he went up to Old Hall that night--and two
of Colonel Melchett's most efficient officers followed him. He threw
gravel at Anne Protheroe's window, aroused her, and an urgent whisper
brought her down to speak with him. Doubtless they felt safer outside
than in--with the possibility of Lettice waking. But as it happened,
the two police officers were able to overhear their conversation in
full. It left the matter in no doubt. Miss Marple had been right on
every count.
The trial of Lawrence Redding and Anne Protheroe is a matter of
public knowledge. I do not propose to go into it. I will only mention
that great credit was reflected upon Inspector Slack, whose zeal and
intelligence had resulted in the criminals being brought to justice.
Naturally, nothing was said of Miss Marple's share in the business. She
herself would have been horrified at the thought of such a thing.
Lettice came to see me just before the trial took place. She drifted
through my study window, wraith-like as ever. She told me then that she
had all along been convinced of her stepmother's complicity. The loss
of the yellow beret had been a mere excuse for searching the study.
She hoped against hope that she might find something the police had
overlooked.
"You see," she said in her dreamy voice, "they didn't hate her like I
did. And hate makes things easier for you."
Disappointed in the result of her search, she had deliberately dropped
Anne's earring by the desk.
"Since I _knew_ she had done it, what did it matter? One was as good as
another. She _had_ killed him."
I sighed a little. There are always some things that Lettice will never
see. In some respects she is morally colour blind.
"What are you going to do, Lettice?" I asked.
"When--when it's all over, I am going abroad." She hesitated and then
went on. "I am going abroad with my mother."
I looked up, startled.
She nodded.
"Didn't you ever guess? Mrs. Lestrange is my mother. She is--is
dying, you know. She wanted to see me, and so she came down here
under an assumed name. Dr. Haydock helped her. He's a very old friend
of hers--he was keen about her once--you can see that! In a way, he
still is. Men always went batty about Mother, I believe. She's awfully
attractive, even now. Anyway, Dr. Haydock did everything he could to
help her. She didn't come down here under her own name, because of
the disgusting way people talk and gossip. She went to see Father
that night, and told him she was dying and had a great longing to see
something of me. Father was a beast. He said she'd forfeited all claim,
and that I thought she was dead--as though I had ever swallowed that
story! Men like Father never see an inch before their noses!
"But Mother is not the sort to give in. She thought it only decent to
go to Father first, but when he turned her down so brutally she sent
a note to me, and I arranged to leave the tennis party early and meet
her at the end of the footpath at a quarter past six. We just had a
hurried meeting and arranged when to meet again. We left each other
before half past six. Afterwards, I was terrified that she would be
suspected of having killed Father. After all, she _had_ got a grudge
against him. That's why I got hold of that old picture of her up in the
attic and slashed it about. I was afraid the police might go nosing
about and get hold of it and recognize it. Dr. Haydock was frightened
too. Sometimes, I believe, he really thought she had done it! Mother is
rather a--desperate kind of person. She doesn't count consequences."
She paused.
"It's queer. She and I belong to each other. Father and I didn't. But
Mother--well, anyway, I'm going abroad with her. I shall be with her
till--till the end."
She got up and I took her hand.
"God bless you both," I said. "Some day, I hope, there is a lot of
happiness coming to you, Lettice."
"There should be," she said, with an attempt at a laugh. "There hasn't
been much so far--has there? Oh, well, I don't suppose it matters.
Good-bye, Mr. Clement. You've been frightfully decent to me always--you
and Griselda."
Griselda!
I had to own to her how terribly the anonymous letter had upset me, and
first she laughed, and then solemnly read me a lecture.
"However," she added, "I'm going to be very sober and god-fearing in
future--quite like the Pilgrim Fathers."
I did not see Griselda in the rôle of a Pilgrim Father.
She went on:
"You see, Len, I have a steadying influence coming into my life. It's
coming into your life, too, but in your case it will be a kind of--of
rejuvenating one--at least, I hope so! You can't call me a dear child
half so much when we have a real child of our own. And, Len, I've
decided that, now I'm going to be a real 'wife and mother' (as they
say in books), I must be a housekeeper too. I've bought two books on
Household Management and one on Mother Love and if that doesn't turn me
out a pattern I don't know what will! They are all simply screamingly
funny--not intentionally, you know. Especially the one about bringing
up children."
"You haven't bought a book on How To Treat a Husband, have you?" I
asked with sudden apprehension as I drew her to me.
"I don't need to," said Griselda. "I'm a very good wife. I love you
dearly. What more do you want?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Could you say, just for once, that you love me madly?"
"Griselda," I said, "I adore you! I worship you! I am wildly,
hopelessly, and quite unclerically crazy about you!"
My wife gave a deep and contented sigh.
Then she drew away suddenly.
"Bother! Here's Miss Marple coming. Don't let her suspect, will you? I
don't want everyone offering me cushions and urging me to put my feet
up. Tell her I've gone down to the golf links. That will put her off
the scent--and it's quite true because I left my yellow pullover there,
and I want it."
Miss Marple came to the window, halted apologetically and asked for
Griselda.
"Griselda," I said, "has gone to the golf links."
An expression of concern leaped into Miss Marple's eyes.
"Oh! but surely," she said, "that is most unwise--just now."
And then in a nice, old-fashioned, ladylike, maiden-lady way, she
blushed.
And to cover the moment's confusion, we talked hurriedly of the
Protheroe case, and of "Dr. Stone," who had turned out to be a
well-known cracksman with several different aliases. Miss Cram, by
the way, had been cleared of all complicity. She had at last admitted
taking the suitcase to the wood, but had done so in all good faith, Dr.
Stone having told her that he feared the rivalry of other archæologists
who would not stick at burglary to gain their object of discrediting
his theories. The girl apparently swallowed this not very plausible
story. She is now, according to the village, looking out for a more
genuine article in the line of an elderly bachelor requiring a
secretary.
As we talked, I wondered very much how Miss Marple had discovered
our latest secret. But presently, in a discreet fashion, Miss Marple
herself supplied me with a clue.
"I hope dear Griselda is not overdoing it," she murmured, and added
after a discreet pause, "I was in the bookshop in Much Benham
yesterday--"
Poor Griselda--that book on Mother Love has been her undoing!
"I wonder, Miss Marple," I said suddenly, "if you were to commit a
murder whether you would ever be found out."
"What a terrible idea," said Miss Marple, shocked. "I hope I could
never do such a wicked thing."
"But human nature being what it is," I murmured.
Miss Marple acknowledged the hit with a pretty old-ladyish laugh.
"How naughty of you, Mr. Clement." She rose. "But naturally you are in
good spirits."
She paused by the window.
"My love to dear Griselda--and tell her--that any little secret is
quite safe with me."
Really Miss Marple is rather a dear....