Chapter I
It
is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed
my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The
conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet
contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later
developments.
I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.
My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:
“That'll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, won't you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.”
Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike ice, “Greens,” and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.
My wife said in a sympathetic voice: “Has he been very trying?”
I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, “No, thank you,” and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.
“It is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,” said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.
I was inclined to agree with her. My wife's name is Griselda - a highly suitable name for a parson's wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.
I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda to marry me at the end of twenty fours hours' acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations is the most important consideration.
Griselda is nearly twenty years younger than myself. She is most distractingly pretty and quite incapable of taking anything seriously. She is incompetent in every way, and extremely trying to live with. She treats the parish as a kind of huge joke arranged for her amusement. I have endeavoured to form her mind and failed. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is desirable for the clergy. I have frequently hinted as much to Griselda, but she has only laughed.
“My dear,” I said, “if you would only exercise a little care - ”
“I do sometimes,” said Griselda. “But, on the whole, I think things go worse when I'm trying. I'm evidently not a housekeeper by nature. I find it better to leave things to Mary and just make up my mind to be uncomfortable and have nasty things to eat.”
I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.
My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:
“That'll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, won't you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.”
Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike ice, “Greens,” and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.
My wife said in a sympathetic voice: “Has he been very trying?”
I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, “No, thank you,” and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.
“It is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,” said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.
I was inclined to agree with her. My wife's name is Griselda - a highly suitable name for a parson's wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.
I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda to marry me at the end of twenty fours hours' acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations is the most important consideration.
Griselda is nearly twenty years younger than myself. She is most distractingly pretty and quite incapable of taking anything seriously. She is incompetent in every way, and extremely trying to live with. She treats the parish as a kind of huge joke arranged for her amusement. I have endeavoured to form her mind and failed. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is desirable for the clergy. I have frequently hinted as much to Griselda, but she has only laughed.
“My dear,” I said, “if you would only exercise a little care - ”
“I do sometimes,” said Griselda. “But, on the whole, I think things go worse when I'm trying. I'm evidently not a housekeeper by nature. I find it better to leave things to Mary and just make up my mind to be uncomfortable and have nasty things to eat.”
“And
what about your husband, my dear?” I said reproachfully, and proceeding
to follow the example of the devil in quoting Scripture for his own
ends I added: “She looketh to the ways of her household . . .”
“Think how lucky you are not to be torn to pieces by lions,” said Griselda, quickly interrupting. “Or burnt at the stake. Bad food and lots of dust and dead wasps is really nothing to make a fuss about. Tell me more about Colonel Protheroe. At any rate the early Christians were lucky enough not to have churchwardens.”
“Pompous old brute,” said Dennis. “No wonder his first wife ran away from him.”
“I don't see what else she could do,” said my wife.
“Griselda,” I said sharply. “I will not have you speaking in that way.”
“Darling,” said my wife affectionately. “Tell me about him. What was the trouble? Was it Mr. Hawes's becking and nodding and crossing himself every other minute?”
“Think how lucky you are not to be torn to pieces by lions,” said Griselda, quickly interrupting. “Or burnt at the stake. Bad food and lots of dust and dead wasps is really nothing to make a fuss about. Tell me more about Colonel Protheroe. At any rate the early Christians were lucky enough not to have churchwardens.”
“Pompous old brute,” said Dennis. “No wonder his first wife ran away from him.”
“I don't see what else she could do,” said my wife.
“Griselda,” I said sharply. “I will not have you speaking in that way.”
“Darling,” said my wife affectionately. “Tell me about him. What was the trouble? Was it Mr. Hawes's becking and nodding and crossing himself every other minute?”
Hawes
is our new curate. He has been with us just over three weeks. He has
High Church views and fasts on Fridays. Colonel Protheroe is a great
opposer of ritual in any form.
“Not this time. He did touch on it in passing. No, the whole trouble arose out of Mrs. Price Ridley's wretched pound note.”
Mrs. Price Ridley is a devout member of my congregation. Attending early service on the anniversary of her son's death, she put a pound note into the offertory bag. Later, reading the amount of the collection posted up, she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest item mentioned.
She complained to me about it, and I pointed out, very reasonably, that she must have made a mistake.
“We're none of us so young as we were,” I said, trying to turn it off tactfully. “And we must pay the penalty of advancing years.”
Strangely enough, my words only seemed to incense her further. She said that things had a very odd look and that she was surprised I didn't think so also. And she flounced away and, I gather, took her troubles to Colonel Protheroe. Protheroe is the kind of man who enjoys making a fuss on every conceivable occasion. He made a fuss. It is a pity he made it on a Wednesday. I teach in the Church Day School on Wednesday mornings, a proceeding that causes me acute nervousness and leaves me unsettled for the rest of the day.
“Well, I suppose he must have some fun,” said my wife, with the air of trying to sum up the position impartially. “Nobody flutters round him and calls him the dear vicar, and embroiders awful slippers for him, and gives him bed-socks for Christmas. Both his wife and his daughter are fed to the teeth with him. I suppose it makes him happy to feel important somewhere.”
“He needn't be offensive about it,” I said with some heat. "I don't think he quite realised the implications of what he was saying. He wants to go over all the Church accounts - in case of defalcations - that was the word he used. Defalcations! Does he suspect me of embezzling the Church funds?”
“Nobody would suspect you of anything, darling,” said Griselda. “You're so transparently above suspicion that really it would be a marvellous opportunity. I wish you'd embezzle the S.P.G. funds. I hate missionaries - I always have.”
I would have reproved her for that sentiment, but Mary entered at that moment with a partially cooked rice pudding. I made a mild protest, but Griselda said that the Japanese always ate half-cooked rice and had marvellous brains in consequence.
“I dare say,” she said, “that if you had a rice pudding like this every day till Sunday, you'd preach the most marvellous sermon.”
“Heaven forbid,” I said with a shudder.
“Protheroe's coming over tomorrow evening and we're going over the accounts together,” I went on. “I must finish preparing my talk for the C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirley's Reality that I haven't got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?”
“My duty,” said Griselda. “My duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four-thirty.”
“Who is coming?”
Griselda ticked off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face.
“Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.”
“I rather like Miss Marple,” I said. “She has, at least, a sense of humour.”
“She's the worst cat in the village,” said Griselda. “And she always knows every single thing that happens - and draws the worst inferences from it.”
Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.
“Well, don't expect me in for tea, Griselda,” said Dennis.
“Beast!” said Griselda.
“Yes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis to day.”
“Beast!” said Griselda again.
Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.
“I wonder what we shall have for tea,” said Griselda, seating herself on my writing-table. “Dr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, I'm sure we shall have Mrs. Lestrange for tea. It's so mysterious, isn't it, her arriving like this and taking a house down here, and hardly every going outside it? Makes one think of detective stories. You know - 'Who was she, the mysterious woman with the pale, beautiful face? What was her past history? Nobody knew. There was something faintly sinister about her.' I believe Dr. Haydock knows something about her.”
“You read too many detective stories, Griselda,” I observed mildly.
“What about you?” she retorted. “I was looking everywhere for The Stain on the Stairs the other day when you were in here writing a sermon. And at last I came in to ask you if you'd seen it anywhere, and what did I find?”
I had the grace to blush.
“I picked it up at random. A chance sentence caught my eye and - ”
“I know those chance sentences,” said Griselda. She quoted impressively, “And then a very curious thing happened - Griselda rose, crossed the room and kissed her elderly husband affectionately.” She suited the action to the word.
“Is that a very curious thing?” I inquired.
“Of course it is,” said Griselda. “Do you realise, Len, that I might have married a Cabinet Minister, a Baronet, a rich Company Promoter, three subalterns and a ne'er-do-well with attractive manners, and that instead I chose you? Didn't it astonish you very much?”
“At the time it did,” I replied. “I have often wondered why you did it.”
Griselda laughed.
“It made me feel so powerful,” she murmured. “The others thought me simply wonderful and of course it would have been very nice for them to have me. But I'm everything you most dislike and disapprove of, and yet you couldn't withstand me! My vanity couldn't hold out against that. It's so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in their cap. I make you frightfully uncomfortable and stir you up the wrong way the whole time, and yet you adore me madly. You adore me madly, don't you?”
“Naturally I am very fond of you, my dear.”
“Oh! Len, you adore me. Do you remember that day when I stayed up in town and sent you a wire you never got because the postmistress's sister was having twins and she forgot to send it round? The state you got into and you telephoned Scotland Yard and made the most frightful fuss.”
There are things one hates being reminded of. I had really been strangely foolish on the occasion in question. I said:
“If you don't mind, dear, I want to get on with the C.E.M.S.”
Griselda gave a sigh of intense irritation, ruffled my hair up on end, smoothed it down again, said:
“You don't deserve me. You really don't. I'll have an affair with the artist. I will - really and truly. And then think of the scandal in the parish.”
“There's a good deal already,” I said mildly.
Griselda laughed, blew me a kiss, and departed through the window.
“Not this time. He did touch on it in passing. No, the whole trouble arose out of Mrs. Price Ridley's wretched pound note.”
Mrs. Price Ridley is a devout member of my congregation. Attending early service on the anniversary of her son's death, she put a pound note into the offertory bag. Later, reading the amount of the collection posted up, she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest item mentioned.
She complained to me about it, and I pointed out, very reasonably, that she must have made a mistake.
“We're none of us so young as we were,” I said, trying to turn it off tactfully. “And we must pay the penalty of advancing years.”
Strangely enough, my words only seemed to incense her further. She said that things had a very odd look and that she was surprised I didn't think so also. And she flounced away and, I gather, took her troubles to Colonel Protheroe. Protheroe is the kind of man who enjoys making a fuss on every conceivable occasion. He made a fuss. It is a pity he made it on a Wednesday. I teach in the Church Day School on Wednesday mornings, a proceeding that causes me acute nervousness and leaves me unsettled for the rest of the day.
“Well, I suppose he must have some fun,” said my wife, with the air of trying to sum up the position impartially. “Nobody flutters round him and calls him the dear vicar, and embroiders awful slippers for him, and gives him bed-socks for Christmas. Both his wife and his daughter are fed to the teeth with him. I suppose it makes him happy to feel important somewhere.”
“He needn't be offensive about it,” I said with some heat. "I don't think he quite realised the implications of what he was saying. He wants to go over all the Church accounts - in case of defalcations - that was the word he used. Defalcations! Does he suspect me of embezzling the Church funds?”
“Nobody would suspect you of anything, darling,” said Griselda. “You're so transparently above suspicion that really it would be a marvellous opportunity. I wish you'd embezzle the S.P.G. funds. I hate missionaries - I always have.”
I would have reproved her for that sentiment, but Mary entered at that moment with a partially cooked rice pudding. I made a mild protest, but Griselda said that the Japanese always ate half-cooked rice and had marvellous brains in consequence.
“I dare say,” she said, “that if you had a rice pudding like this every day till Sunday, you'd preach the most marvellous sermon.”
“Heaven forbid,” I said with a shudder.
“Protheroe's coming over tomorrow evening and we're going over the accounts together,” I went on. “I must finish preparing my talk for the C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirley's Reality that I haven't got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?”
“My duty,” said Griselda. “My duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four-thirty.”
“Who is coming?”
Griselda ticked off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face.
“Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.”
“I rather like Miss Marple,” I said. “She has, at least, a sense of humour.”
“She's the worst cat in the village,” said Griselda. “And she always knows every single thing that happens - and draws the worst inferences from it.”
Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.
“Well, don't expect me in for tea, Griselda,” said Dennis.
“Beast!” said Griselda.
“Yes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis to day.”
“Beast!” said Griselda again.
Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.
“I wonder what we shall have for tea,” said Griselda, seating herself on my writing-table. “Dr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, I'm sure we shall have Mrs. Lestrange for tea. It's so mysterious, isn't it, her arriving like this and taking a house down here, and hardly every going outside it? Makes one think of detective stories. You know - 'Who was she, the mysterious woman with the pale, beautiful face? What was her past history? Nobody knew. There was something faintly sinister about her.' I believe Dr. Haydock knows something about her.”
“You read too many detective stories, Griselda,” I observed mildly.
“What about you?” she retorted. “I was looking everywhere for The Stain on the Stairs the other day when you were in here writing a sermon. And at last I came in to ask you if you'd seen it anywhere, and what did I find?”
I had the grace to blush.
“I picked it up at random. A chance sentence caught my eye and - ”
“I know those chance sentences,” said Griselda. She quoted impressively, “And then a very curious thing happened - Griselda rose, crossed the room and kissed her elderly husband affectionately.” She suited the action to the word.
“Is that a very curious thing?” I inquired.
“Of course it is,” said Griselda. “Do you realise, Len, that I might have married a Cabinet Minister, a Baronet, a rich Company Promoter, three subalterns and a ne'er-do-well with attractive manners, and that instead I chose you? Didn't it astonish you very much?”
“At the time it did,” I replied. “I have often wondered why you did it.”
Griselda laughed.
“It made me feel so powerful,” she murmured. “The others thought me simply wonderful and of course it would have been very nice for them to have me. But I'm everything you most dislike and disapprove of, and yet you couldn't withstand me! My vanity couldn't hold out against that. It's so much nicer to be a secret and delightful sin to anybody than to be a feather in their cap. I make you frightfully uncomfortable and stir you up the wrong way the whole time, and yet you adore me madly. You adore me madly, don't you?”
“Naturally I am very fond of you, my dear.”
“Oh! Len, you adore me. Do you remember that day when I stayed up in town and sent you a wire you never got because the postmistress's sister was having twins and she forgot to send it round? The state you got into and you telephoned Scotland Yard and made the most frightful fuss.”
There are things one hates being reminded of. I had really been strangely foolish on the occasion in question. I said:
“If you don't mind, dear, I want to get on with the C.E.M.S.”
Griselda gave a sigh of intense irritation, ruffled my hair up on end, smoothed it down again, said:
“You don't deserve me. You really don't. I'll have an affair with the artist. I will - really and truly. And then think of the scandal in the parish.”
“There's a good deal already,” I said mildly.
Griselda laughed, blew me a kiss, and departed through the window.
Chapter II
Griselda
is a very irritating woman. On leaving the luncheon table, I had felt
myself to be in a good mood for preparing a really forceful address for
the Church of England Men's Society. Now I felt restless and disturbed.
Just when I was really settling down to it, Lettice Protheroe drifted in.
I
use the word drifted advisedly. I have read novels in which young
people are described as bursting with energy - joie de vivre, the
magnificent vitality of youth . . . Personally, all the young people I
came across have the air of animal wraiths.
Lettice was
particularly wraith-like this afternoon. She is a pretty girl, very tall
and fair and completely vague. She drifted through the French window,
absently pulled off the yellow beret she was wearing and murmured
vaguely with a kind of far-away surprise: “Oh! it's you.”
There is
a path from Old Hall through the woods which comes out by our garden
gate, so that most people coming from there come in at that gate and up
to the study window instead of going a long way round by the road and
coming to the front door. I was not surprised at Lettice coming in this
way, but I did a little resent her attitude.
If you come to a Vicarage, you ought to be prepared to find a Vicar.
She
came in and collapsed in a crumpled heap in one of my big armchairs.
She plucked aimlessly at her hair, staring at the ceiling.
“Is Dennis anywhere about?”
“I haven't seen him since lunch. I understood he was going to play tennis at your place.”
“Oh!” said Lettice. “I hope he isn't. He won't find anybody there.”
“He said you asked him.”
“I believe I did. Only that was Friday. And today's Tuesday.”
“It's Wednesday,” I said.
“Oh! how dreadful,” said Lettice. “That means that I've forgotten to go to lunch with some people for the third time.”
Fortunately it didn't seem to worry her much.
“Is Griselda anywhere about?”
“I expect you'd find her in the studio in the garden - sitting to Lawrence Redding.”
“There's been quite a shemozzle about him,” said Lettice. “With father, you know. Father's dreadful.”
“What was the she - whatever it was about?” I inquired.
“About
his painting me. Father found out about it. Why shouldn't I be painted
in my bathing dress? If I go on a beach in it, why shouldn't I be
painted in it?”
Lettice paused and then went on.
“It's
really absurd - father forbidding a young man the house. Of course,
Lawrence and I simply shriek about it. I shall come and be done here in
your studio.”
“No, my dear,” I said. “Not if your father forbids it.”
“Oh!
dear,” said Lettice, sighing. “How tiresome every one is. I feel
shattered. Definitely. If only I had some money I'd go away, but without
it I can't. If only father would be decent and die, I should be all
right.”
“You must not say things like that, Lettice.”
“Well,
if he doesn't want me to want him to die, he shouldn't be so horrible
over money. I don't wonder mother left him. Do you know, for years I
believed she was dead. What sort of a young man did she run away with?
Was he nice?”
“It was before your father came to live here.”
“I
wonder what's become of her. I expect Anne will have an affair with
someone soon. Anne hates me - she's quite decent to me, but she hates
me. She's getting old and she doesn't like it. That's the age you break
out, you know.”
I wondered if Lettice was going to spend the entire afternoon in my study.
“You haven't seen my gramophone records, have you?” she asked.
“No.”
“How
tiresome. I know I've left them somewhere. And I've lost the dog. And
my wrist watch is somewhere, only it doesn't much matter because it
won't go. Oh! dear, I am so sleepy. I can't think why, because I didn't
get up till eleven. But life's very shattering, don't you think? Oh!
dear, I must go. I'm going to see Dr. Stone's barrow at three o'clock.”
I glanced at the clock and remarked that it was now five-and-twenty to four.
“Oh!
is it? How dreadful. I wonder if they've waited or if they've gone
without me. I suppose I'd better go down and do something about it.”
She got up and drifted out again, murmuring over her shoulder:
“You'll tell Dennis, won't you?”
I
said “Yes” mechanically, only realising too late that I had no idea
what it was I was to tell Dennis. But I reflected that in all
probability it did not matter. I fell to cogitating on the subject of
Dr. Stone, a well-known archaeologist who had recently come to stay at
the Blue Boar, whilst he superintended the excavation of a barrow
situated on Colonel Protheroe's property. There had already been several
disputes between him and the Colonel. I was amused at his appointment
to take Lettice to see the operations.
It occurred to me that
Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx. I wondered how she would get
on with the archaeologist's secretary, Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy
young woman of twenty-five, noisy in manner, with a high colour, fine
animal spirits and a mouth that always seems to have more than its full
share of teeth.
Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no
better than she should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who
purposes to become Mrs. Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every
way a great contrast to Lettice.
I could imagine that the state of
things at Old Hall might not be too happy. Colonel Protheroe had
married again some five years previously. The second Mrs. Protheroe was a
remarkably handsome woman in a rather unusual style. I had always
guessed that the relations between her and her stepdaughter were not too
happy.
I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate,
Hawes. He wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I
told him that the colonel had deplored his “Romish tendencies” but that
the real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the
same time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he
must conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.
I
felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better.
These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am
sure, very unchristian.
With a sigh, I realized that the hands of
the clock on my writing-table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that
it was really half-past four, and I made my way to the drawing-room.
Four
of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat
behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only
succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.
I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.
Miss
Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner -
Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple
is much the more dangerous.
“We were just talking,” said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, “about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram.”
A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head. “Miss Cram doesn't give a damn.”
I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:
“No nice girl would do it,” and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.
“Do what?” I inquired.
“Be a secretary to an unmarried man,” said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.
“Oh! my dear,” said Miss Marple, “I think married ones are the worst. Remember poor Mollie Carter.”
“Married men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,” said Miss Wetherby.
“And even some of the ones living with their wives,” murmured Miss Marple. “I remember - ”
I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.
“But surely,” I said, “in these days a girl can take a post in just the same way as a man does.”
“To come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?” said Mrs. Price Ridley in a severe voice.
Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice.
“And all the bedrooms on the same floor . . . . ”
Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:
“The poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. He's as innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that.”
Curious
what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present would have
dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in the cradle,
visible to all.
“Disgusting, I call it,” continued Miss Hartnell,
with her usual tactlessness. “The man must be at least twenty-five years
older than she is.”
Three female voices rose at once making
disconnected remarks about the Choir Boys' Outing, the regrettable
incident at the last Mothers' Meeting, and the draughts in the church.
Miss Marple twinkled at Griselda.
“Don't you think,” said my wife,
“that Miss Cram may just like having an interesting job? And that she
considers Dr. Stone just as an employer.”
There was a silence. Evidently none of the four ladies agreed. Miss Marple broke the silence by patting Griselda on the arm.
“My dear,” she said, “you are very young. The young have such innocent minds.”
Griselda said indignantly that she hadn't got at all an innocent mind.
“Naturally,” said Miss Marple, unheeding of the protest, “you think the best of every one.”
“Do you really think she wants to marry that bald-headed dull man?”
“I
understand he is quite well off,” said Miss Marple. “Rather a violent
temper, I'm afraid. He had quite a serious quarrel with Colonel
Protheroe the other day.”
Every one leaned forward interestedly.
“Colonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus.”
“How like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd,” said Mrs. Price Ridley.
“Very
like Colonel Protheroe, but I don't know about it being absurd,” said
Miss Marple. “You remember the woman who came down here and said she
represented Welfare, and after taking subscriptions she was never heard
of again and proved to having nothing whatever to do with Welfare. One
is so inclined to be trusting and take people at their own valuation.”
I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.
“There's been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasn't there?” asked Miss Wetherby.
Miss Marple nodded.
“Colonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was painting Lettice in her bathing dress.”
“I
always thought there was something between them,” said Mrs. Price
Ridley. “That young fellow is always mouthing off up there. Pity the
girl hasn't got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing.”
“I dare say Mrs. Protheroe does her best,” said Miss Hartnell.
“Girls are so sly,” deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.
“Quite a romance, isn't it?” said the softer-hearted Miss Wetherby. “He's a very good-looking young fellow.”
“But loose,” said Miss Hartnell. “Bound to be. An artist! Paris! Models! The Altogether!”
“Painting her in her bathing dress,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “Not quite nice.”
“He's painting me too,” said Griselda.
“But not in your bathing dress, dear,” said Miss Marple.
“It might be worse,” said Griselda solemnly.
“Naughty girl,” said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broadmindedly. Everybody else looked slightly shocked.
“Did dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?” asked Miss Marple of me.
“Tell me?”
“Yes. I saw her pass through the garden and go round to the study window.”
Miss
Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke screen,
and the habit of observing birds through powerfull glasses can always be
turned to account.
“She mentioned it, yes,” I admitted.
“Mr. Hawes looked worried,” said Miss Marple. “I hope he hasn't been working too hard.”
“Oh!”
cried Miss Wetherby excitedly. “I quite forgot. I knew I had some news
for you. I saw Dr. Haydock coming out of Mrs. Lestrange's cottage.”
Every one looked at each other.
“Perhaps she's ill,” suggested Mrs. Price Ridley.
“It
must have been very sudden, if so,” said Miss Hartnell. “For I saw her
walking round her garden at three o'clock this afternoon, and she seemed
in perfect health.”
“She and Dr. Haydock must be old acquaintances,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “He's been very quiet about it.”
“It's curious,” said Miss Wetherby, “that he's never mentioned it.”
“As a matter of fact - ” said Griselda in a low, mysterious voice, and stopped. Every one leaned forward excitedly.
“I
happen to know,” said Griselda impressively. “Her husband was a
missionary. Terrible story. He was eaten, you know. Actually eaten. And
she was forced to become the chief's head wife. Dr. Haydock was with an
expedition and rescued her.”
For a moment excitement was rife, then Miss Marple said reproachfully, but with a smile: “Naughty girl!”
She tapped Griselda reprovingly on the arm.
“Very
unwise thing to do, my dear. If you make up these things, people are
quite likely to believe them. And sometimes that leads to
complications.”
A distinct frost had come over the assembly. Two of the ladies rose to take their departure.
“I
wonder if there is anything between young Lawrence Redding and Lettice
Protheroe,” said Miss Wetherby. “It certainly looks like it. What do you
think, Miss Marple?”
Miss Marple seemed thoughtful.
“I shouldn't have said so myself. Not Lettice. Quite another person I should have said.”
“But Protheroe must have thought - ”
“He
has always struck me as rather a stupid man,” said Miss Marple. “The
kind of man who gets the wrong idea into his head and is obstinate about
it. Do you remember Joe Bucknell who used to keep the Blue Boar? Such a
to-do about his daughter carrying on with young Bailey. And all the
time it was that minx of a wife of his.”
She was looking full at Griselda as she spoke, and I suddenly felt a wild surge of anger.
“Don't
you think, Miss Marple,” I said, “that we're an inclined to let our
tongues run away with us too much. Charity thinketh no evil, you know.
Inestimable harm may be done by foolish wagging of tongues in
ill-natured gossip.”
“Dear Vicar,” said Miss Marple, “You are so
unworldly. I'm afraid that observing human nature for as long as I have
done, one gets not to expect very much from it. I dare say the idle
tittle-tattle is very wrong and unkind, but it is so often true, isn't
it?”
That last Parthian shot went home.
Chapter III
“Nasty old cat,” said Griselda, as soon as the door was closed. She made a face in the direction of the departing visitors and then looked at me and laughed.
“Len, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?”
“My dear, of course not.”
“But you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Like - like an angry tiger.”
A momentary uneasiness assailed me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in the position of being described as an angry tiger.
“I felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,” I said. “But Griselda, I wish you would be a little more careful in what you say.”
“Do you mean the cannibal story?” she asked. “Or the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude! If they only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collar - the sort of thing that you could go quite purely to see the Pope in - not a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, it's all marvellously pure. Lawrence never even attempts to make love to me - I can't think why.”
“Surely, knowing that you're a married woman ”
“Don't pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderly husband is a kind of gift from heaven to a young man. There must be some other reason - it's not that I'm unattractive - I'm not.”
“Surely you don't want him to make love to you?”
“N-n-o,” said Griselda, with more hesitation than I thought becoming.
“If he's in love with Lettice Protheroe - ”
“Miss Marple didn't seem to think he was.”
“Miss Marple may be mistaken.”
“She never is. That kind of old cat is always right.” She paused a minute and then said, with a quick sidelong glance at me: “You do not believe me, don't you? I mean, that there's nothing between Lawrence and me.”
“My dear Griselda,” I said, surprised. “Of course.”
My wife came across and kissed me.
“I wish you weren't so terribly easy to deceive, Len. You'd believe me whatever I said.”
“I should hope so. But, my dear, I do beg of you to guard your tongue and be careful what you say. These women are singularly deficient in humour, remember, and take everything seriously.”
“What they need,” said Griselda, “is a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldn't be so busy looking for it in other people's.”
And on this she left the room, and glancing at my watch I hurried out to pay some visits that ought to have been made earlier in the day.
The Wednesday evening service was sparsely attended as usual, but when I came out through the church, after disrobing in the vestry, it was empty save for a woman who stood staring up at one of our windows. We have some rather fine old stained glass, and indeed the church itself is well worth looking at. She turned at my footsteps, and I saw that it was Mrs. Lestrange.
We both hesitated a moment, and then I said:
“I hope you like our little church.”
“Len, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?”
“My dear, of course not.”
“But you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Like - like an angry tiger.”
A momentary uneasiness assailed me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in the position of being described as an angry tiger.
“I felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,” I said. “But Griselda, I wish you would be a little more careful in what you say.”
“Do you mean the cannibal story?” she asked. “Or the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude! If they only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collar - the sort of thing that you could go quite purely to see the Pope in - not a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, it's all marvellously pure. Lawrence never even attempts to make love to me - I can't think why.”
“Surely, knowing that you're a married woman ”
“Don't pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderly husband is a kind of gift from heaven to a young man. There must be some other reason - it's not that I'm unattractive - I'm not.”
“Surely you don't want him to make love to you?”
“N-n-o,” said Griselda, with more hesitation than I thought becoming.
“If he's in love with Lettice Protheroe - ”
“Miss Marple didn't seem to think he was.”
“Miss Marple may be mistaken.”
“She never is. That kind of old cat is always right.” She paused a minute and then said, with a quick sidelong glance at me: “You do not believe me, don't you? I mean, that there's nothing between Lawrence and me.”
“My dear Griselda,” I said, surprised. “Of course.”
My wife came across and kissed me.
“I wish you weren't so terribly easy to deceive, Len. You'd believe me whatever I said.”
“I should hope so. But, my dear, I do beg of you to guard your tongue and be careful what you say. These women are singularly deficient in humour, remember, and take everything seriously.”
“What they need,” said Griselda, “is a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldn't be so busy looking for it in other people's.”
And on this she left the room, and glancing at my watch I hurried out to pay some visits that ought to have been made earlier in the day.
The Wednesday evening service was sparsely attended as usual, but when I came out through the church, after disrobing in the vestry, it was empty save for a woman who stood staring up at one of our windows. We have some rather fine old stained glass, and indeed the church itself is well worth looking at. She turned at my footsteps, and I saw that it was Mrs. Lestrange.
We both hesitated a moment, and then I said:
“I hope you like our little church.”
“I've been admiring the screen,” she said.
Her voice was pleasant, low, yet very distinct, with a clear-cut enunciation. She added:
“I'm so sorry to have missed your wife yesterday.”
We talked a few minutes longer about the church. She was evidently a cultured woman who knew something of Church history and architecture. We left the building together and walked down the road, since one way to the Vicarage led past her house. As we arrived at the gate, she said pleasantly:
“Come in, won't you? And tell me what you think of what I have done.”
I accepted the invitation. Little Gates had formerly belonged to an Anglo-Indian colonel, and I could not help feeling relieved by the disappearance of the brass tables and Burmese idols. It was furnished now very simply, but in exquisite taste. There was a sense of harmony and rest about it.
Yet I wondered more and more what had brought such a woman as Mrs. Lestrange to St. Mary Mead. She was so very clearly a woman of the world that it seemed a strange taste to bury herself in a country village.
In the clear light of her drawing-room I had an opportunity of observing her closely for the first time.
She was a very tall woman. Her hair was gold with a tinge of red in it. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, whether by art or by nature I could not decide. If she was, as I thought, made up, it was done very artistically. There was something Sphinxlike about her face when it was in repose and she had the most curious eyes I have ever seen - they were almost golden in shade.
Her clothes were perfect and she had all the ease of manner of a well-bred woman, and yet there was something about her that was incongruous and baffling. You felt that she was a mystery. The word Griselda had used occurred to me - sinister . Absurd, of course, and yet - was it so absurd? The thought sprang unbidden into my mind: “This woman would stick at nothing.”
Our talk was on most normal lines - pictures, books, old churches. Yet somehow I got very strongly the impression that there was something else - something of quite a different nature that Mrs. Lestrange wanted to say to me.
I caught her eyes on me once or twice, looking at me with a curious hesitancy, as though she were unable to make up her mind. She kept the talk, I noticed, strictly to impersonal subjects. She made no mention of a husband or of friends or relations.
But all the time there was that strange urgent appeal in her glance. It seemed to say: “Shall I tell you? I want to. Can't you help me?”
Yet in the end it died away - or perhaps it had all been my fancy. I had the feeling that I was being dismissed. I rose and took my leave. As I went out of the room, I glanced back and saw her staring after me with a puzzled, doubtful expression. On an impulse I came back:
“If there is anything I can do - ”
She said doubtfully: “It's very kind of you - ”
We were both silent. Then she said:
“I wish I knew. It's very difficult. No, I don't think any one can help me. But thank you for offering to do so.”
That seemed final, so I went. But as I did so, I wondered. We are not used to mysteries in St. Mary Mead.
So much is this the case that as I emerged from the gate I was pounced upon. Miss Hartnell is very good at pouncing in a heavy and cumbrous way.
“ I saw you!” she exclaimed with ponderous humour. “And I was so excited. Now can you tell us all about it.”
“About what?”
“The mysterious lady! Is she a widow or has she a husband somewhere?”
“I really couldn't say. She didn't tell me.”
“How very peculiar. One would think she would be certain to mention something casually. It almost looks, doesn't it, as though she had a reason for not speaking?”
“I really don't see that.”
“Ah! but as dear Miss Marple says, you are so unworldly, dear vicar. Tell me, has she known Dr. Haydock long?”
“She didn't mention him, so I don't know.”
“Really? But what did you talk about then?”
“Pictures, music, books,” I said truthfully.
Miss Hartnell, whose only topics of conversation are the purely personal, looked suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, I bade her good-night and walked rapidly away.
I called in at a house farther down the village and returned to the Vicarage by the garden gate, passing, as I did so, the danger point of Miss Marple's garden. However, I did not see how it was humanly possible for the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrange to have yet reached her ears, so I felt reasonably safe.
As I latched the gate, it occurred to me that I would just step down to the shed in the garden which young Lawrence Redding was using as a studio, and see for myself how Griselda's portrait was progressing.
I append a rough sketch here which will be useful in the light of after happenings, only sketching in such details as are necessary.
PLAN A
I had no idea there was any one in the studio. There had been no voices from within to warn me, and I suppose that my own footsteps made no noise upon the grass.
I opened the door and then stopped awkwardly on the threshold. For there were two people in the studio, and the man's arms were round the woman and he was kissing her passionately.
The two people were the artist, Lawrence Redding, and Mrs. Protheroe.
I backed out precipitately and beat a retreat to my study. There I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought things over. The discovery had come as a great shock to me. Especially since my conversation with Lettice that afternoon, I had felt fairly certain that there was some kind of understanding growing up between her and the young man. Moreover, I was convinced that she herself thought so. I felt positive that she had no idea of the artist's feelings for her stepmother.
A nasty tangle. I paid a grudging tribute to Miss Marple. She had not been deceived but had evidently suspected the true state of things with a fair amount of accuracy. I had entirely misread her meaning glance at Griselda.
I had never dreamed of considering Mrs. Protheroe in the matter. There has always been rather a suggestion of Caesar's wife about Mrs. Protheroe - a quiet, self-contained woman whom one would not suspect of any great depths of feeling.
I had got to this point in my meditations when a tap on my study window aroused me. I got up and went to it. Mrs. Protheroe was standing outside. I opened the window and she came in, not waiting for an invitation on my part. She crossed the room in a breathless sort of way and dropped down on the sofa.
I had the feeling that I had never really seen her before. The quiet self-contained woman that I knew had vanished. In her place was a quick-breathing, desperate creature. For the first time I realised that Anne Protheroe was beautiful.
She was a brown-haired woman with a pale face and very deep set grey eyes. She was flushed now and her breast heaved. It was as though a statue had suddenly come to life. I blinked my eyes at the transformation.
“I thought it best to come,” she said. “You - you saw just now?” I bowed my head.
She said very quietly: “We love each other . . .”
And even in the middle of her evident distress and agitation she could not keep a little smile from her lips. The smile of a woman who sees something very beautiful and wonderful.
I still said nothing, and she added presently:
“I suppose to you that seems very wrong?”
“Can you expect me to say anything else, Mrs. Protheroe?”
“No - no, I suppose not.”
I went on, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible:
“You are a married woman - ”
She interrupted me.
“Oh! I know - I know. Do you think I haven't gone over all that again and again? I'm not a bad woman really - I'm not. And things aren't - aren't - as you might think they are.”
I said gravely: “I'm glad of that.”
She asked rather timorously:
“Are you going to tell my husband?”
I said rather dryly:
“There seems to be a general idea that a clergyman is incapable of behaving like a gentleman. That is not true.”
She threw me a grateful glance.
“I'm so unhappy. Oh! I'm so dreadfully unhappy. I can't go on. I simply can't go on. And I don't know what to do.” Her voice rose with a slightly hysterical note in it. “You don't know what my life is like. I've been miserable with Lucius from the beginning. No woman could be happy with him. I wish he were dead . . . It's awful, but I do . . . I'm desperate. I tell you, I'm desperate.” She started and looked over at the window.
“What was that? I thought I heard someone? Perhaps it's Lawrence.”
I went over to the window which I had not closed as I had thought. I stepped out and looked down the garden, but there was no one in sight. Yet I was almost convinced that I, too, had heard someone. Or perhaps it was her certainty that had convinced me.
When I re-entered the room she was leaning forward, drooping her head down. She looked the picture of despair. She said again:
“I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.”
I came and sat down beside her. I said the things I thought it was my duty to say, and tried to say them with the necessary conviction, uneasily conscious all the time that that same morning I had given voice to the sentiment that a world without Colonel Protheroe in it would be improved for the better.
Above all, I begged her to do nothing rash. To leave her home and her husband was a very serious step.
I don't suppose I convinced her. I have lived long enough in the world to know that arguing with any one in love is next door to useless, but I do think my words brought to her some measure of comfort.
When she rose to go, she thanked me, and promised to think over what I had said.
Nevertheless, when she had gone, I felt very uneasy. I felt that hitherto I had misjudged Anne Protheroe's character. She impressed me now as a very desperate woman, the kind of woman who would stick at nothing once her emotions were aroused. And she was desperately, wildly, madly in love with Lawrence Redding, a man several years younger than herself. I didn't like it.
Chapter IV
I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.
“I hope everything will be all right,” Griselda called up the stairs after me. “I've thought over what you said at lunch, and I've really thought of some quite good things to eat.”
“I hope everything will be all right,” Griselda called up the stairs after me. “I've thought over what you said at lunch, and I've really thought of some quite good things to eat.”
I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griselda's assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she didn't. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters which Griselda had ordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence, we were, unfortunately, not able to sample as we had nothing in the house to open them with - an omission which was discovered only when the moment for eating them arrived.
I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.
However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.
Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all, one's idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.
It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I don't think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.
Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay - full of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram - the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griselda's age than I am. He calls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.
I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I'm not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.
Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then but I hadn't the heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere presence of a clergyman should have a damping effect.
Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he maneuvred to get me into the study.
As soon as we were alone his manner changed.
“You've surprised our secret, sir,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?”
I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.
“Of course,” he said, when I had finished, “you're bound to say all this. You're a parson. I don't mean that in any way offensively. As a matter of fact I think you're probably right. But this isn't the usual sort of thing between Anne and me.”
I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.
“You mean every one thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe.”
He assured me that so far - “there was nothing wrong in it.” Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What was going to happen he didn't know.
“If this were only a book,” he said gloomily, “the old man would die - and a good riddance to everybody.”
I reproved him:
“Oh! I didn't mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though I'd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There's not a soul in the world who's got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didn't do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You don't know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I'd take her away without any more ado.”
Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroe's ears - and things would be made infinitely worse for her.
Lawrence protested.
“Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.”
“My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead every one knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.”
He said easily that that was all right. Every one thought it was Lettice.
“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that possibly Lettice might think so herself.”
He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn't care a hang about him. He was sure of that.
“She's a queer sort of girl,” he said. “Always seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe she's really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she's doing. And there's a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anne's been a perfect angel to her always.”
I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her stepdaughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice's tone.
We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.
“Oh! dear,” said Griselda, throwing herself into an arm-chair.
“How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder - or even a burglary.”
“I don't suppose there's any one much worth burgling,” said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. “Unless we stole Miss Hartnell's false teeth.”
“They do click horribly,” said Griselda. “But you're wrong about there being no one worth while. There's some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II. Tazza - all kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe.”
“The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,” said Dennis. “Just the sort of thing he'd enjoy doing.”
“Oh! we'd get in first and hold him up,” said Griselda. “Who's got a revolver?”
“I've got a Mauser pistol,” said Lawrence.
“Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?”
“Souvenir of the war,” said Lawrence briefly.
“Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,” volunteered Dennis. “Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.”
“I thought they'd quarrelled about the barrow,” said Griselda.
“Oh! they've made that up,” said Dennis. “I can't think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.”
“That man Stone puzzles me,” said Lawrence. “I think he must be very absent-minded. You'd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject.”
“That's love,” said Dennis. “Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor - ”
“That's enough, Dennis,” I said.
“Well,” said Lawrence Redding, “I must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening.”
Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.
Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.
“Sorry,” said Dennis.
He was silent for a moment and then burst out:
“What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!”
I was a little surprised. “What's the matter?” I asked.
“I don't know whether I ought to tell you.”
I was more and more surprised.
“It's such an absolutely rotten thing,” Dennis said again. “Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I'm damned - sorry - if I tell you! It's too absolutely rotten.”
I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.
Griselda came in at that moment.
“Miss Wetherby's just rung up,” she said. "Mrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn't come in yet. Nobody knows where she's gone.''
“Why should they know?”
“But it isn't to Dr. Haydock's. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.”
“It is a mystery to me,” I said, “how any one ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.”
“And that's not all,” said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. “They've found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT” - she waved an impressive forefinger - “ no communicating door!”
“That,” I said, “must be very disappointing to everybody.”
At which Griselda laughed.
Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.
Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.
Then our organist, who is distinctly “touchy,” had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.
And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.
I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.
“Firmness,” he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. “That's what's needed nowadays - firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I'll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We're too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You're always being asked to consider a man's wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It's all the same to me - no matter what a man is - doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel - if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I'm sure.”
“You forget,” I said. “My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others - the quality of mercy.”
“Well, I'm a just man. No one can deny that.”
I did not speak, and he said sharply:
“Why don't you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.”
I hesitated, then I decided to speak.
“I was thinking,” I said, “that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me . . .”
“Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I've always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I'll be along this evening, as I said. We'll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don't mind. I've got to see a man in the village.”
“That will suit me quite well.”
He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.
I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.
He turned abruptly at my entrance.
“Look here, sir. I've been thinking over what you said yesterday. I've had a sleepless night thinking about it. You're right. I've got to cut and run.”
“My dear boy,” I said.
“You were right in what you said about Anne. I'll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She's - she's too good for anything else. I see I've got to go. I've made things hard enough for her as it is, Heaven help me.”
“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.”
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn't know what he was talking about.
“You'll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”
“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wrung my hand. “You're a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say goodbye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I'm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement's portrait.”
“Don't worry about that, my dear boy. Goodbye, and God bless you.”
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six-thirty or soon after.
I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse.
However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.
Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all, one's idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.
It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I don't think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.
Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay - full of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram - the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griselda's age than I am. He calls me Uncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.
I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I'm not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.
Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then but I hadn't the heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere presence of a clergyman should have a damping effect.
Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he maneuvred to get me into the study.
As soon as we were alone his manner changed.
“You've surprised our secret, sir,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?”
I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.
“Of course,” he said, when I had finished, “you're bound to say all this. You're a parson. I don't mean that in any way offensively. As a matter of fact I think you're probably right. But this isn't the usual sort of thing between Anne and me.”
I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.
“You mean every one thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe.”
He assured me that so far - “there was nothing wrong in it.” Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What was going to happen he didn't know.
“If this were only a book,” he said gloomily, “the old man would die - and a good riddance to everybody.”
I reproved him:
“Oh! I didn't mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though I'd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There's not a soul in the world who's got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didn't do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You don't know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I'd take her away without any more ado.”
Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroe's ears - and things would be made infinitely worse for her.
Lawrence protested.
“Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.”
“My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead every one knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.”
He said easily that that was all right. Every one thought it was Lettice.
“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that possibly Lettice might think so herself.”
He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn't care a hang about him. He was sure of that.
“She's a queer sort of girl,” he said. “Always seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe she's really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she's doing. And there's a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anne's been a perfect angel to her always.”
I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her stepdaughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice's tone.
We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.
“Oh! dear,” said Griselda, throwing herself into an arm-chair.
“How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder - or even a burglary.”
“I don't suppose there's any one much worth burgling,” said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. “Unless we stole Miss Hartnell's false teeth.”
“They do click horribly,” said Griselda. “But you're wrong about there being no one worth while. There's some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II. Tazza - all kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe.”
“The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,” said Dennis. “Just the sort of thing he'd enjoy doing.”
“Oh! we'd get in first and hold him up,” said Griselda. “Who's got a revolver?”
“I've got a Mauser pistol,” said Lawrence.
“Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?”
“Souvenir of the war,” said Lawrence briefly.
“Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,” volunteered Dennis. “Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.”
“I thought they'd quarrelled about the barrow,” said Griselda.
“Oh! they've made that up,” said Dennis. “I can't think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.”
“That man Stone puzzles me,” said Lawrence. “I think he must be very absent-minded. You'd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject.”
“That's love,” said Dennis. “Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor - ”
“That's enough, Dennis,” I said.
“Well,” said Lawrence Redding, “I must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening.”
Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.
Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.
“Sorry,” said Dennis.
He was silent for a moment and then burst out:
“What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!”
I was a little surprised. “What's the matter?” I asked.
“I don't know whether I ought to tell you.”
I was more and more surprised.
“It's such an absolutely rotten thing,” Dennis said again. “Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I'm damned - sorry - if I tell you! It's too absolutely rotten.”
I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.
Griselda came in at that moment.
“Miss Wetherby's just rung up,” she said. "Mrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn't come in yet. Nobody knows where she's gone.''
“Why should they know?”
“But it isn't to Dr. Haydock's. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.”
“It is a mystery to me,” I said, “how any one ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.”
“And that's not all,” said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. “They've found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT” - she waved an impressive forefinger - “ no communicating door!”
“That,” I said, “must be very disappointing to everybody.”
At which Griselda laughed.
Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.
Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.
Then our organist, who is distinctly “touchy,” had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.
And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.
I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.
“Firmness,” he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. “That's what's needed nowadays - firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I'll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We're too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You're always being asked to consider a man's wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It's all the same to me - no matter what a man is - doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel - if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I'm sure.”
“You forget,” I said. “My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others - the quality of mercy.”
“Well, I'm a just man. No one can deny that.”
I did not speak, and he said sharply:
“Why don't you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.”
I hesitated, then I decided to speak.
“I was thinking,” I said, “that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me . . .”
“Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I've always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I'll be along this evening, as I said. We'll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don't mind. I've got to see a man in the village.”
“That will suit me quite well.”
He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.
I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.
He turned abruptly at my entrance.
“Look here, sir. I've been thinking over what you said yesterday. I've had a sleepless night thinking about it. You're right. I've got to cut and run.”
“My dear boy,” I said.
“You were right in what you said about Anne. I'll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She's - she's too good for anything else. I see I've got to go. I've made things hard enough for her as it is, Heaven help me.”
“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.”
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn't know what he was talking about.
“You'll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”
“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wrung my hand. “You're a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say goodbye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I'm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement's portrait.”
“Don't worry about that, my dear boy. Goodbye, and God bless you.”
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six-thirty or soon after.
Chapter V
It was nearer seven than half-past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.
I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.
“Hullo,” I said, “have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I've got to see Protheroe about some accounts - but I dare say we shan't be long.”
“Protheroe,” he said. He began to laugh. “Protheroe? You're going to see Protheroe? Oh! you'll see Protheroe all right. Oh! my God - yes.”
I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.
“No,” he almost cried out. “I've got to get away - to think. I've got to think. I must think.”
He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.
Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.
“So you're back at last,” she observed.
“Is Colonel Protheroe here?” I asked.
“In the study. Been here since a quarter past six.”
“And Mr. Redding's been here?”
“Come a few minutes ago. Asked for you. I told him you'd be back any minute and that Colonel Protheroe was waiting in the study, and he said he'd wait too, and went there. He's there now.”
“No, he isn't,” I said. “I've just met him going down the road.”
“Well, I didn't hear him leave. He can't have stayed more than a couple of minutes. The mistress isn't back from town yet.”
I nodded absentmindedly. Mary beat a retreat to the kitchen quarters and I went down the passage and opened the study door.
After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead.
For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me.
Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip.
I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was dead - shot through the head.
I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.
Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctor's coming.
Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.
His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.
“Well?” I asked.
“He's dead right enough - been dead half an hour, I should say.”
“Suicide?”
“Out of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, where's the weapon?”
True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.
“We'd better not mess around with anything,” said Haydock. “I'd better ring up the police.”
He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.
“This is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?”
I explained. “Is - is it murder?” I asked rather faintly.
“Looks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn't popular, but one isn't often murdered for that reason - worse luck.”
“There's one rather curious thing,” I said. “I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there every one was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.”
Haydock drew his brows together.
“That's suggestive - very. You were being got out of the way. Where's your wife?”
“Gone up to London for the day.”
“And the maid?”
“In the kitchen - right at the other side of the house.”
“Where she wouldn't be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It's a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?”
“He referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.”
“Meaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of any one who had a grudge against him?”
The thought of Lawrence Redding's white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
“The police,” said my friend, and rose to his feet.
Our police force were represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “The Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I'll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe's been found shot - in the Vicarage.”
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
PLAN B
He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can't say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre - say a Mauser .25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding's admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
“Did you speak, sir?”
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.
“When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?”
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
“The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.”
Hurst turned to me. “Did the girl hear anything?”
“As far as I know she heard nothing,” I said. “But you had better ask her.”
But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.
All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.
He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinate's notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
“Everything's been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,” he said.
“I've touched nothing,” said Haydock.
“No more have I,” I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
“Ah!” he said in a tone of triumph. “Here's what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That'll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?”
“I said about half an hour, but - ”
The Inspector consulted his watch.
“Five minutes past seven. I got word about ten minutes ago, at five minutes to seven. Discovery of the body was at about a quarter to seven. I understand you were fetched immediately. Say you examined it at ten minutes to - why, that brings it to the identical second almost!”
“I don't guarantee the time absolutely,” said Haydock. “That is an approximate estimate.”
“Good enough, sir, good enough.”
I had been trying to get a word in.
“About that clock - ”
“If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll ask you any questions I want to know. Time's short. What I want is absolute silence.”
“Yes, but I'd like to tell you - ”
“Absolute silence,” said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.
He was still peering about the writing table.
“What was he sitting here for,” he grunted. “Did he want to write a note - hallo - what's this?”
He held up a piece of note-paper triumphantly. So pleased was he with his find that he permitted us to come to his side and examine it with him.
It was a piece of Vicarage note-paper, and it was headed at the top 6.20.
“DEAR CLEMENT” - it began - “Sorry I cannot wait any longer, but I must . . .”
Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said Inspector Slack triumphantly. “He sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?”
“I'd just like to say - ” I began.
“Out of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.”
He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.
“I think you ought to know - ” I said obstinately.
The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.
“We'll go into all that later. I'd be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.”
We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.
Hours seemed to have passed - yet it was only a quarter-past seven.
“Well,” said Haydock. “That's that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.”
“The mistress is back,” said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. “Come in about five minutes ago.”
I found Griselda in the drawing-room. She looked frightened, but excited.
I told her everything and she listened attentively.
“The letter is headed 6.20,” I ended. “And the clock fell over and has stopped at 6.22.”
“Yes,” said Griselda. “But that clock, didn't you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?”
“No,” I said. “I didn't. He wouldn't let me. I tried my best.” Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.
“But, Len,” she said, “that makes the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Because when that clock said twenty past six it was really only five minutes past, and at five minutes past I don't suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.”
I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.
“Hullo,” I said, “have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I've got to see Protheroe about some accounts - but I dare say we shan't be long.”
“Protheroe,” he said. He began to laugh. “Protheroe? You're going to see Protheroe? Oh! you'll see Protheroe all right. Oh! my God - yes.”
I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.
“No,” he almost cried out. “I've got to get away - to think. I've got to think. I must think.”
He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.
Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.
“So you're back at last,” she observed.
“Is Colonel Protheroe here?” I asked.
“In the study. Been here since a quarter past six.”
“And Mr. Redding's been here?”
“Come a few minutes ago. Asked for you. I told him you'd be back any minute and that Colonel Protheroe was waiting in the study, and he said he'd wait too, and went there. He's there now.”
“No, he isn't,” I said. “I've just met him going down the road.”
“Well, I didn't hear him leave. He can't have stayed more than a couple of minutes. The mistress isn't back from town yet.”
I nodded absentmindedly. Mary beat a retreat to the kitchen quarters and I went down the passage and opened the study door.
After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead.
For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me.
Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip.
I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was dead - shot through the head.
I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.
Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctor's coming.
Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.
His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.
“Well?” I asked.
“He's dead right enough - been dead half an hour, I should say.”
“Suicide?”
“Out of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, where's the weapon?”
True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.
“We'd better not mess around with anything,” said Haydock. “I'd better ring up the police.”
He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.
“This is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?”
I explained. “Is - is it murder?” I asked rather faintly.
“Looks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn't popular, but one isn't often murdered for that reason - worse luck.”
“There's one rather curious thing,” I said. “I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there every one was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.”
Haydock drew his brows together.
“That's suggestive - very. You were being got out of the way. Where's your wife?”
“Gone up to London for the day.”
“And the maid?”
“In the kitchen - right at the other side of the house.”
“Where she wouldn't be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It's a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?”
“He referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.”
“Meaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of any one who had a grudge against him?”
The thought of Lawrence Redding's white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
“The police,” said my friend, and rose to his feet.
Our police force were represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “The Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I'll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe's been found shot - in the Vicarage.”
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
PLAN B
He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can't say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre - say a Mauser .25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding's admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
“Did you speak, sir?”
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.
“When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?”
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
“The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.”
Hurst turned to me. “Did the girl hear anything?”
“As far as I know she heard nothing,” I said. “But you had better ask her.”
But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.
All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.
He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinate's notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
“Everything's been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,” he said.
“I've touched nothing,” said Haydock.
“No more have I,” I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
“Ah!” he said in a tone of triumph. “Here's what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That'll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?”
“I said about half an hour, but - ”
The Inspector consulted his watch.
“Five minutes past seven. I got word about ten minutes ago, at five minutes to seven. Discovery of the body was at about a quarter to seven. I understand you were fetched immediately. Say you examined it at ten minutes to - why, that brings it to the identical second almost!”
“I don't guarantee the time absolutely,” said Haydock. “That is an approximate estimate.”
“Good enough, sir, good enough.”
I had been trying to get a word in.
“About that clock - ”
“If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll ask you any questions I want to know. Time's short. What I want is absolute silence.”
“Yes, but I'd like to tell you - ”
“Absolute silence,” said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.
He was still peering about the writing table.
“What was he sitting here for,” he grunted. “Did he want to write a note - hallo - what's this?”
He held up a piece of note-paper triumphantly. So pleased was he with his find that he permitted us to come to his side and examine it with him.
It was a piece of Vicarage note-paper, and it was headed at the top 6.20.
“DEAR CLEMENT” - it began - “Sorry I cannot wait any longer, but I must . . .”
Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said Inspector Slack triumphantly. “He sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?”
“I'd just like to say - ” I began.
“Out of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.”
He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.
“I think you ought to know - ” I said obstinately.
The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.
“We'll go into all that later. I'd be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.”
We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.
Hours seemed to have passed - yet it was only a quarter-past seven.
“Well,” said Haydock. “That's that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.”
“The mistress is back,” said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. “Come in about five minutes ago.”
I found Griselda in the drawing-room. She looked frightened, but excited.
I told her everything and she listened attentively.
“The letter is headed 6.20,” I ended. “And the clock fell over and has stopped at 6.22.”
“Yes,” said Griselda. “But that clock, didn't you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?”
“No,” I said. “I didn't. He wouldn't let me. I tried my best.” Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.
“But, Len,” she said, “that makes the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Because when that clock said twenty past six it was really only five minutes past, and at five minutes past I don't suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.”
